


The Amatus and the Altus

by DAfan7711



Series: Inquisitor Romances [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action & Romance, Bad Parenting, BioWare, Brothers, Chantry Issues, Child Neglect, Custom Trevelyan, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mages and Templars, Past Child Abuse, Protective Siblings, Romance, Siblings, Trevelyan brothers, adult survivor of child abuse, adult survivor of child neglect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 144,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711
Summary: When Karl Trevelyan fell from the Fade, his unconscious brother Leo cradled in his arms, he couldn’t remember why his hand was Marked with green magic. When Dorian Pavus arranged a secret meeting with the Herald of Andraste, he had no idea the infamous rogue would prove so kind.When Leo Trevelyan led his brother to the Conclave, he had no idea that he would end up the one led, or that they would be appointed the saviors of the world. And when Lace Harding offered to scout for the only people who seemed to care what happened to the common folk, she had no idea the Herald’s brother would be her match.





	1. We have to try

“Karl, please,” Leo Trevelyan leaned forward in earnest, his voice lowered so it wouldn’t carry beyond the closed door. Probably no one other than his brother would be able to hear the little catch in his voice that indicated his desperation. “You’ll have to sit through some homilies, but I’m going as a neutral witness. We don’t even have to visit Mom’s Templar friends. It would get her off your back.”

Karl splayed his brown hands across the front of the blood-spattered missives on his desk, heart quaking with rage. Many mages died to bring him these papers. He hadn’t been there to protect them. Though what he could have done alone against a dozen frenzied Templars, he had no idea. And the papers were as worthless as the fake promises behind them. Damn war.

“They don’t just slaughter farm children on the road, Leo. The Chantry uses Tranquility as a weapon, too.”

“I know. It’s one of the reasons I have to go.”

Karl looked up, unable to resist the pain in his older brother’s deep brown eyes. Leo had his weathered hands clenched around his knees. Although he and Karl had seen the same amount of action with their dual blades, Leo’s skin was a little lighter than Karl’s own ebony, a bit dryer, better showcasing the scars from wayward broken blades and childhood accidents.

Those hands had picked Karl up again and again: every time a horse had thrown him; every time a Templar’s kid had punched him into the dirt; and when Karl’s best friend Lance had been sent by his parents to Kirkwall, into the “care” of the Knight-Captain there. Lance had been robbed of his magic and his mind before his life was snuffed out. He hadn’t broken any rules; the Knight-Commander had chosen a dozen mages at random, just to prove she could. Damn Chantry.

“Okay, Leo. We’ll go to the Conclave together. You know it will just be the same explosive rhetoric, right?”

“We have to try,” Leo said.

A mere week later, Karl was in a stone room he didn’t recognize. Everything was a blur. A flash of silver lashed out to hit Leo in the head, sending him into Karl, knocking them both to the floor.

“Run while you can!” An old woman’s voice echoed through the room, followed by a smack and a thud. Something heavy rolled swiftly across the floor toward Karl’s head. Keeping an arm around the unconscious Leo, he raised a hand to shield them from the projectile and felt a searing pain in his palm, as if he had tried to catch a ball of fire. More shouts. Violent flashes in molten red, sickly green, and an oily blackness darker than any pit.

And they were falling. He twisted in mid air to keep his brother above him and landed on his back. His head bounced back on the rocky ground, sending a slice of pain up his scalp and piercing flashes of white across his dim vision.

“Don’t move!” a scared male voice ordered, but it was muted and distant, like Karl had cloth in his ears.

“Can’t,” he muttered, squeezing his brother tighter to his chest, and blacked out.

-

Just a few minutes earlier . . .

Leo was glad Karl had agreed to come along. Life was always survivable—bearable—when they were together. They were grimly silent as they wandered a quiet corner of the Temple of Sacred Ashes during a break between meetings. The Conclave was going even worse than expected. Well, Karl had called the whole thing a farce, but Leo had hoped—

“Someone, help me!” a woman cried out. Virulent red magic crackled under a door at the end of the hall.

“This way!” Leo shouted, racing down the gray stone hall, Karl quick on his heels. He drew his blades, shouldered the door open, and was met with a pommel to the head. He saw a flash of silver and then blackness.

He struggled to open his eyes, found himself hanging upside down over Karl’s shoulder, looking down over a dim rocky cliff face. He tried to lift his hands and head, but they were too heavy. Too numb. Karl’s grip was tight around his legs. They were climbing. Fast. As his dead weight bounced against Karl’s back, he caught glimpses of skittering legs and frantic pinchers.

Giant. Fucking. Spiders.

Leo opened his dry, cracked lips to shout a warning, but no sound came from his scratchy throat. Was the very air fiery dust?

“Go!” that same woman’s voice echoed against the stone, swiftly followed by the disturbing meaty thud of a body falling down an uneven incline.

They’d reached the top. Leo’s head flopped against Karl’s shoulder as Karl pulled him upright into his arms and flung himself forward through a blinding, bile-green light.

They fell. Karl twisted in the air, putting himself below Leo as they crashed to the rocky ground.

“Don’t move!” a soldier in brown furs ordered, his sword pointed at their necks.

“Can’t,” Karl muttered weakly, and his arms went lax.

“Karl? Karl?!” a fresh wave of fear coursed through Leo, waking his frozen arms. He tore his glove off with his teeth and checked for a pulse. It was strong. With a sigh of relief, he rested his pounding forehead to his brother’s chest.

“On your feet, murderer!”

He should be surprised. Worried. But he was still too relieved to care. Karl was breathing. The spiders were gone. Whatever it was he was accused of, they’d sort it out easily enough.

The sharp red firelight hurt his eyes, so he closed them and rested his cheek on Karl’s chest. “We haven’t killed anyone, and we’ll be happy to answer any of your questions. But we’ve both had a nasty hit on the head, and I’m having trouble moving, so if you would be so kind as to call a healer—

“Hey!” Fresh pain raced up his spine as someone dragged him up by the back of his coat. Strangers’ hands grabbed his shoulders, checked his empty sheaths for his lost weapons—damn, but those knives had been expensive—and shackled him.

What the fuck?

“I am Lord Leo Trevelyan, a neutral witness to these negotiations, and—”

“Do you call _that_ neutral, _my lord_?!” A soldier sneered in his face, pointing to the sky.

A violent green, swirling hole tore at the heavens, crackling and spewing rocks the size of houses. He could see the sky because the roof was gone. Only a few broken half-walls and ledges remained, all tainted red. The red light that hurt his eyes hadn’t been from a fire, but red lyrium protruding from the broken, black-singed ground that used to be the temple’s floor. He’d seen warnings about the stuff after the riots at Kirkwall.

He looked back to the sky. “What is it?”

“You tell us,” the soldier shot back, bending over to lift one of Karl’s arms. Green light flickered from the middle of Karl’s palm.

Leo’s heart crunched into a little ball. What had he gotten Karl into?

“I assure you, we did not harm anyone. Please, take us to your captain so that we can give testimony. But first, my brother needs a healer.”

The soldier gave an irritated huff. “You’re going straight to the Seeker.”


	2. The Wrath of Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an unmarked red tent in front of Haven’s chantry, Leo did his best to remain seated on a hard wood chair while a healer fussed over the cut on his scalp. The elfroot oil stung and the prodding fingers belonged to a stranger allied with those who held Karl prisoner.

He wanted to storm out and demand that the Seeker take him to Karl immediately.

Blessedly, one of the guards lifted the tent flap just then and Lady Pentaghast strode in, chin high, eyes serious. Her black hair was up in a braided circlet about her head and a thin pink scar ran up one of her cheeks. Her fair white face and stern nose declared her Nevarran royalty, even if she did not claim the title for herself. She was more fierce than the blazing Seeker eye emblazoned on her jerkin and shield. She was an expert warrior, and she was beautiful, but she was also devout enough to make him worry.

He’d have recognized her from the paintings, even if he and his mother hadn’t held strategy meetings with her and Divine Justinia just last summer. This Seeker was the Right Hand of the Divine. Justinia’s friend.

And Justinia had just been murdered during peace talks.

“My Lord Trevelyan,” she said formally, back straight and one hand on the pommel of her sheathed sword. “My apologies for your rough treatment. The prisoner is awake, if you would like to observe the interrogation.”

“The prisoner is my _brother_ , Cassandra,” Leo replied gruffly, “and he is innocent.”

“Leo, I understand your dilemma,” Cassandra shot back, “but this is not tea and crumpets with Sister Dorothea.” Cassandra was so stressed, she’d slipped into using Divine Justinia’s former name. “This is completely different than the last time we spoke! The Most Holy is _dead_ by magic. Your brother, a man I only know by reputation, is _marked_ by that same magic. If he was not solely responsible for the blast, he was close enough to know who else was there.”

“He was neither solely responsible, nor an accomplice! For Maker’s sake, Cassandra, I may have been unconscious for most of it, but the trouble started long before we rushed down that hall.”

“That does not mean he was not involved. Rumors circulate that he’s been harboring apostates.”

“There’s no such thing as an apostate any longer. The circles are _gone_ , Cassandra. _Your_ Lord Seeker Lambert dissolved them with violent intent. And if he ever resurfaces, I hope you stick your finely polished boot to his ass.”

She pursed her pink lips together hard enough to turn them white, clearly holding in another fiery volley of words.

“Cassandra,” he tried more gently, “I know you don’t think helping refugees is a sin. The poor folk Karl escorts to safety want nothing to do with violence. He’s not harboring malificarum. Please, let me help you find those responsible for this tragedy.”

The tent flap rose again and the Left Hand of the Divine stepped through. She had been in the shadows last summer, never formally introduced, but Leo had made sure to learn of her. Sister Nightingale wore a purple hood to hide her red hair, and a long vest of heavy, intricate chainmail trimmed in brown and purple leathers. The hood and soft leather touches did not fool him: however fancy, that was real, practical mail. On a strong body used to moving in it. She and Cassandra were both as dangerous as dragons.

“We are ready,” her soft Orlesian accent rang clearly through the grim silence of the tent.

“Thank you, Leliana,” Cassandra said stiffly.

Cassandra led them across the rough snow-covered ground into the chantry proper, through a subtle side door, and down long, uneven, disturbingly worn stone steps. How many prisoners had the Chantry dragged down here over the years? Had any of those people had friends? Allies? Family?

Also, how many chantries had dungeons? Had he sung Andraste’s praises all these years while others cowered in a wretched prison beneath him, awaiting their fate?

Because that’s what it was: a fucking _dungeon_ beneath the feet of the Faithful. Dark and despairing, complete with iron chains, iron bars, and a hungry, oily darkness that devoured everything but the tiny little circle of light from a torch in the center.

The surrounding cells were vacant of bodies for now, soiled straw and rotten scraps dragged into the corners by Maker only knew what kind of rodents. Leo’s stomach turned upside down in protest.

And then Cassandra stepped to the side and Leo saw him: Karl. On his knees, dirty water soaking through his pants, head bowed in defeat. The iron shackles around his wrists kept him anchored to the floor, unable to use his hands.

Leo whimpered, scared he was too late, and Karl’s head snapped up, keen gaze as sharp as ever.

A brief flash of happy relief crossed Karl’s face before he turned a stoic gaze to Cassandra. “Release Lord Leo Trevelyan and I’ll do anything you ask.”

“I’m not—” Leo took a step forward, but stopped when all the guards—shit, there had to be ten of them—raised their blades in his direction.

Karl cried out in pain as a flash of green light flared from his left palm to smite the floor. Leo choked back unshed tears, wanting to fall down at his side and hold him.

_Please, Maker, please. Coming here was my idea. Take me instead._

“Explain _this_ ,” Cassandra grabbed Karl’s wrist, clanking the heavy iron shackle against the floor, and making Karl cry out in pain again.

“Cass, please,” Leo choked out.

Leliana strode forward and pulled the Seeker back. “We _need_ him, Cassandra.”

With a snarl of frustration, Cassandra waved the guards out. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will bring him.”

“I can carry him,” Leo hurriedly offered, ignoring Karl’s frown. “But he needs dry clothes, or he’ll freeze before we get wherever it is we’re going.”

Leliana handed Leo a dry brown sack he hadn’t noticed her holding. She didn’t smile, or pat his shoulder, or say anything reassuring, but there was no anger in her eyes. Only sorrow.

-

When Karl Trevelyan woke in the Chantry’s dungeon, with rift magic blazing from his left hand, he had no memory of anything after his older brother led him out of the Conclave commons.

The searing green light died down, leaving his hand plain brown again.

He was surrounded by drawn swords and angry faces. Guards had him on his knees on a dank stone floor so cold that the muscles in his legs had seized up. If they ever told him to stand up and walk, he doubted he would be able to comply.

His palm itched, but the tight shackles around his wrists were held apart by an iron bar, which prevented him from scratching. With a hissing crackle, the magic tore through his skin again, and he couldn’t confine a pained grunt.

The building shook with a rumble, like giant boulders were flung down all the surrounding mountains at once. What the fuck was going on out there?

While the light died, the magic left behind the stench of singed ozone. It smelled almost as bad as the slimy stone that cut into his knees. He swallowed down rising bile.

Head still bowed, he slowly moved his eyes to see as much as he could beyond the armored boots before him. The cold drip of dirty water and agitated breathing of his captors was all he could hear.

He’d been worried and hurting, but panic finally threatened when he realized he saw no sign of Leo. Where was Leo? What had they done to him?

Several sets of booted feet approached. Karl pushed his fear down in his gut, steeling himself for whatever fate approached.

Leo’s whimper was the most beautiful thing Karl had ever heard. He was alive! He was here, upright and unbound, though surrounded by hostile troops. A shiny salve ran along the length of the gash on his scalp, which had been cleaned.

Karl turned his face toward Seeker Pentaghast. Yes, he knew who she was. He may have not joined Mother and Leo at last year’s negotiations, but any Thedosian noble with half a brain knew better than to ignore the power of the Left and Right Hands of the Divine.

While Leo had tried to be a voice of calm neutrality, and keep Mother as far away from Karl as he could, Karl had been digging for evidence. Across Thedas, there were dark whispers that the Chantry was amassing capital and soldiers for a bloody Inquisition. The last Inquisition had been a long, violent genocide of mages, and only come to an end when the century-old Inquisition joined forces with the young Chantry to create the Templar Order and Circle of Magi.

That was almost a thousand years ago. The agreement had been the Nevarran Accord. A Princess of Nevarra stood before him now, still royal, no matter what sigil she bore on her shield.

Ice ran through Karl’s veins, but he managed to keep his voice calm. “Release Lord Leo Trevelyan and I’ll do anything you ask.”

“I’m not—” Leo took a step forward, but the guards—fuck, there were a lot of them—blocked him, swords all too close to impaling him.

Karl bit his lip when the Mark on his hand flared forth again, burning the flesh and filling his vision with green sparks.

“Explain this,” Cassandra grabbed Karl’s hand, heedless of how it bent his wrist against the shackles.

He couldn’t contain a shout of pain as the hard iron cut into him. Much more of this and he wouldn’t be able to think straight, much less answer his jailer’s questions coherently.

“Cass, please,” Leo pleaded. Unarmed, but unable to remain silent himself.

Karl wanted to tell him to stay quiet, not draw her ire, but talking to Leo might just incite her more. He’d do anything to make her forget Leo was there. Anything for Leo to escape back home.

The Left Hand was more mysterious than Seeker Pentaghast, but Karl had learned her friends—including the dearly departed Hero of Ferelden—called her Leliana. It was she who pulled the Seeker off of him.

Exhausted back quivering, Karl leaned forward and rested his clammy forehead on the back of his hand, not really listening to what was said next. His knees creaked and he heard a little crack along his neck, but his hand stung so badly, he couldn’t really tell what else hurt.

“I can carry him.”

What, so Leo could be shamed as well? Condemned along with him?

A moment later, he was free of the shackles. Leo eased him to his feet, then gripped him in a hard hug. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for dragging you here.”

“It’s not your fault, Leo.” Karl hugged him back as best he could, fingers and arms not quite moving properly after their release from the heavy iron.

Leo leaned back, gripping his shoulders tight, like he was afraid Karl might fall. “An explosion destroyed the temple. Justinia and everyone else at the Conclave were killed.”

“Except us,” Karl said gravely. He wished he could say the explosion surprised him more than the magic crackling in his hand. But it didn’t. Terror bred terror. Terror that had begun long before the official start of this war three years ago.

“Yes. It tore a hole in the Fade, a swirling green hole in the sky, big as a mountain, raining rocks and demons. They call it the Breach. They think the Mark on your hand can help close it.”

Karl laughed, the sound a brash echo off the dungeon walls.

“Chantry folk. Want _me_. To use magic,” he held up his Marked hand. “To kill demons and seal the heavens.”

“Yes,” Leo’s lip trembled, but he said no more.

Leo was alive and there were corporeal demons skulking around just outside. The only way Leo could get home is if Karl cooperated. Karl didn’t want the locals to suffer, either; it hadn’t been their idea to have Divine Justinia swoop in with legions of Templars and Mages.

“We can’t very well leave all these villagers to a grim fate. I’ll do what I can, Leo.”

“I know.”

Leo helped him sit on a short, dry little stool to take off his boots and change into dry leather pants. He even put dry socks on Karl’s feet and put his boots on for him, just like a lowly valet. Karl was too tired to argue. The real fight would begin outside.

The Seeker stood just outside the open iron-barred door. She didn’t stare as Leo helped him change, but she didn’t turn her back either. Now that he was a little warmer, Karl could appreciate her restraint. Her world had literally exploded, killing her friends and their last-ditch effort to broker peace. She needed his hand, but she also could have roughed him up a lot more first.

When they stepped out into the frigid snow-tinged courtyard, the whole sky was a swirling green vortex of death that pulsated along with every twitch in his palm. Leo’s words had not prepared him for this reality. He gripped his brother’s elbow.

“Oh, ha, ha, ha, no, no, no.” He looked down at the Mark, which itched even more now, like the magic tried to break free to find the Breach. “This tiny little bit of hell . . . I can’t even reach up . . . for fuck’s sake, Leo.”

“I know.”

Karl took a deep breath, leaned heavily on Leo’s arm when another crashing pulse from the sky reverberated along his arm, spilling spikes of light from his hand. This time, instead of making him fuzzy, the pain spurred his mind into sharp clarity.

I _have to end this. I’m the only one who can._

He straightened. “Lady Pentaghast, you’re leading us through a demon-infested valley.” He nodded toward a weapons bench where a pair of soldiers hurriedly polished blades and rattled off inventory reports to a haughty woman with a pinched expression, likely the Quartermaster. “We need equipment.”

Cassandra hesitated. Karl heard Leo hold his breath and squeezed his elbow in reassurance. The Seeker might have been upset, but she was a seasoned warrior, and she sure as fuck wasn’t stupid.

She nodded and Karl flashed her a grin. “I knew the stories were right about you.”

She blinked. “Stories?”

“That you’re as pragmatic as you are passionate.”

She blushed at that and turned to talk to the Quartermaster.

“Seriously?” Leo hissed under his breath. “You’re _flirting_ with her?”

Karl smiled, heart lighter than it had been since he agreed to come to the Conclave. He had a plan, and with Leo at his side, they might actually survive it. “No, my dear brother, just making things a little less antagonistic. We _can_ do this. And so can she.”

Both still had their empty sheaths strapped to their backs. Leo’s lovely Antivan blades were forever lost, and Karl’s own had been stripped from him before he woke in the dungeon. They found serviceable enough daggers and short swords on the bench. But only a handful of stealth powder bombs.

“Here,” Karl tried to hand them to Leo, who shook his head and pushed Karl’s hands back into his chest.

“You take them. You’re the one who needs to get through this.”

Karl believed the exact opposite, but if he said so, they’d be stuck here arguing about it until the Breach swallowed the world. So he nodded and put them into his belt pouch.

“How would you feel about following my orders?” Karl asked.

“I’d follow you anywhere, Karl. Into the Void itself.”

There was a disturbing image. Karl pushed it out of his mind, focusing on the current need.

“Let’s do our best to avoid that. I’m pretty sure, though, that with this Mark, someone is going to want to put me forward—as window dressing, if nothing more.”

“I’m with you. Always.”

“Yeah, I never doubted that.”

Now, for the tricky part. Leo had always been his shield before. A buffer against Mother, a companion on lonely nights, the voice of peace when the bullies came knocking. To ask him to step aside now felt like sacrilege. But it had to be done.

“Leo, can you let me do the talking? Just watch my back from the woodwork. Whatever the backlash, I want only one Trevelyan name dragged through the mud. The one that’s already tarnished.”

Leo swallowed heavily, jaw set, but he nodded. “I understand.”

Shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother, Karl turned to face the Seeker. It was okay for _her_ to see them as equals. For now, before necessity required Leo retreat into the shadows.

“We’re ready, Lady Pentaghast,” Karl said. “We’ve defeated plenty of bandits and mercenaries, but not fought demons before. We’ll follow your lead.”

She looked nonplussed for a moment, but quickly recovered. “Mind the teeth and claws. Most are poisonous, or at least carry a Fade sickness, and our healers are in short supply. Otherwise, it’s the same as fighting a person or animal: eyes, throats, and knees are the weakest points.” She paused, eyeing their gear. “Back stabs are particularly effective also. Oh, and the gangly green ones, the Terrors: they melt in and out of the ground at will, so mind behind you as well. Go for their throats first; their screams can stun you.”

His insides shook at that description, but Karl kept his voice steady. “Lead on, Cassandra. We’ll be your rear guard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris) for reading through the first draft of this chapter!


	3. Shattered Temple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content includes the condition of the bodies found at the temple after the explosion.
> 
> Special thanks to @snugglebonnet on tumblr for reading the first draft of this chapter.
> 
>  

These demons didn’t _have_ eyes, throats, or knees, that Leo could see. They threw a terrible green mist that stung like pepper in the eyes and smelled like nightmares. Tasted like some kind of leafy poison, too, if you got blasted in the face.

It _stung_. He couldn’t see! Leo gripped his knives tighter, bringing his forearm up to shield his face from another blast.

“Wraith! And a shade,” Cassandra rushed past him with a shout, boots clattering on the frozen lake below. The sound of claws clanging against a shield reverberated through the stone valley.

“Keep your eyes closed!” Karl pulled him down on his knees and pressed great scratchy clumps of icy snow to Leo’s face. The frigid pieces ran down his eyelids and scratched his wind-burned cheeks, but lessened the sting.

“Another few handfuls,” Karl said as he scooped fresh snow. “It’s still running green. Try blinking now.”

Leo hesitantly opened and closed his eyes, then looked up into Karl’s concerned brown gaze, everything sharp and clear. His face had never felt so cold before in his life, but the poison was out of his eyes.

They knelt behind a boulder, out of sight from the snarling brown shade demon and nebulous green wraith that Cassandra faced.

Leo sheathed his right dagger and scooped a handful of fresh snow up to his lips, rinsing and spitting a few times. “Oh,” he huffed out. “That’s nasty. That faceless, legless green one that darts around in the air—we should take it out first.”

“ _I_ will do that,” Karl said. “When the wraith is down, help Cassandra.”

The wraith raised its gangly arms again. A whoosh of magic poison pinged off Cassandra’s shield as she blocked another swipe of the shade with her sword.

“I’m ready,” Leo pulled his second knife out again and Karl dropped stealth powder to cover them both.

Leo’s heart rate spiked when his invisible brother left his side. What if the wraith had more friends? After his first blow, Karl would be revealed. He’d need one perfect backstab before the blighted thing raised a barrier. Leo squelched down his panic and crouched behind the boulder, watching Cassandra exchange blows with the shade demon.

It wasn’t as ugly as the chantry’s paintings depicted it, but it was scarier. Real as a brown bear and just as dangerous. Taller than an average man, its long, scrawny arms ended in clawed fingers. Instead of legs, its long torso flowed down into a flexible wall of muscle it used to glide across the uneven ground, fast as a snake: upright, arms raised, teeth barred, beady eyes glinting with malice. This demon didn’t want to possess anyone. It maimed and killed.

The ground shook. The Breach threw down boulders, the demons gurgled out unholy animal sounds, and Cassandra’s fierce battle cries could be heard over it all.

Never before had patience been so difficult. Seconds stretched like hours, with no indication of Karl’s progress. Then, when Leo’s anxious heart was beating so fast he thought it might burst, Karl appeared with a sweeping whoosh, Twin Fangs deep in the wraith’s back.

The poisonous demon vanished in a puff of Fade-tinged smoke.

Leo sped across the ice and plunged his borrowed daggers into the back of the shade. The demon roared, arms and head thrown back in rage, and Cassandra thrust the killing blow into its chest.

Panting, Leo looked up to find Cassandra just as winded as he. “Well done,” she said.

Karl ran back to his side. “How are your eyes?”

“Fine,” Leo answered truthfully. “A little dry from the wind, but I think we got all the poison out.”

Cassandra wiped her sword on a cloth from her belt and sheathed it. “We will find you a healer at the forward camp. To be certain.”

“Thank you.”

There was only one way forward.

Relieved to have Karl in sight again, Leo followed him closely as he led them up the path, along dangerously icy stone steps and a rocky dirt trail muddied with snow.

They approached another bridge of broken stone. How many outbuildings and bridges were there? Leo didn’t remember the journey being so long when he and his brother had first walked up the mountain to the Temple for the Conclave. Then again, they hadn’t needed to fight corporeal demons every step of the way.

The largest specter had been the one haunting Karl’s heart, and Leo hadn’t respected that enough. The situation was more dire than even Karl had predicted.

He should not have dragged him here. Leo resisted the urge to fall to his knees in the snow and beg Karl’s forgiveness again. That wouldn’t help. He had to follow him forward.

Human shouts, clanging metal, and demons’ snarls rose up to meet them. Karl drew his blades and raced forward, Leo and Cassandra close on his heels.

They leapt from the broken bridge down into a crater that used to be another chantry building.

Under the wicked flashes of a rift, a bald elf mage and beardless, hairy blond dwarf with a heavy crossbow helped human soldiers in nondescript brown uniforms.

“Wraiths!” Karl shouted to the elf and pointed with his daggers toward the edge of the field, where two of the little green bastards floated around to flank them.

The mage and dwarf turned that way while Karl and Leo helped Cassandra dispatch the last of the shades.

Leo ducked under swinging claws and rolled behind the demon, thrusting upward with both blades while sliding across the icy ground on his knees. Karl plunged his daggers into its front and it crumbled to dust.

The air crackled with green magic like giant ice crystals.

“Quickly,” the elf grabbed Karl’s Marked hand and thrust his arm toward the rift. “Before more come through!”

Leo rushed toward the elf mage, blades ready, but Cassandra and the dwarf didn’t seem concerned, so he stopped close enough to intervene if it looked like Karl needed help.

With a loud sizzle and blinding crack, the magic from Karl’s hand snapped the rift shut.

Karl yanked his hand back. “ _Don’t_ grab me.”

“There was not time—”

“Do _not_ grab me.”

“Very well.” The elf didn’t bother to look contrite. “Whatever magic caused the Breach and rifts also placed that Mark upon your hand. I theorized that it could be used to close rifts, and, we hope, the Breach. I am pleased to see I was correct.” His tone didn’t sound pleased at all.

Cassandra said, “Though an apostate, Solas is well versed in such matters. He is an expert on obscure properties of the Fade.”

“You flatter me, Seeker.”

“She needs you, Chuckles,” the dwarf said. “But she still might stab you in the book.”

“I am not without reason, Varric!” Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest. “And I apologized for that!”

Leo’s head spun, trying to get a handle on the conversation.

“The back?” Karl asked.

“Book,” the dwarf answered decisively. He shook Karl’s hand. “Lord Trevelyan, Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” He winked at the Seeker.

She scowled and opened her lips to protest, but the dwarf spoke first. “You need me, Cassandra.”

She made a disgusted noise and headed further up the mountain. Solas wrinkled his nose, gave Karl a cold, appraising look, and followed.

“Well,” Varric patted his crossbow, “Bianca’s excited.”

“You named your crossbow Bianca?” Leo asked. Despite their predicament, excitement bubbled within him. He hadn’t known the novelist was at Haven. He’d never thought he’d get the chance to actually _meet_ him. “For real? Not just in _the Champion_?”

Smiling, Karl shook his head and followed after Cassandra.

“You’re read my most famous story, I take it.” Varric grinned and trotted off after the others.

“I have.” Leo easily kept pace. “Who’s the bow named after? Where’d you get it?”

“Found it in a barrel marked ‘swag’ at the Black Emporium in Kirkwall. One-of-a-kind. Whoever dumped it had no idea what they’d lost.”

“Fascinating. But why ‘Bianca?’ Who is she?”

“No one, kid. It’s just a name I came up with for my most constant companion.” He patted the crossbow again.

They’d caught up with Karl, who slowed, caught Leo’s eye, and nodded ahead toward Solas.

“Shady bastard,” Karl said in an undertone. “I want you to watch my back when he’s around.”

“Absolutely,” Leo said.

“Aren’t you the _infamous mage sympathizer_?” Varric waved his hands like he was telling a scary ghost story around a campfire. “Harborer of Apostates and Heretical Rebel Supporter of Heresy?”

Karl chuckled. “You can call me Karl. Mages should be free to live however they choose, Varric. But that doesn’t mean I trust everyone I meet, mage or no.”

Varric sobered. “Yeah. Even I’m wrong sometimes. It’s rare. But it happens.”

Leo was curious, but there wasn’t the time to grill Varric about past disappointments. They had to get to the Breach. Well, Karl had to get there. The rest of them were just there to make sure he made it.

“What do you know about our ‘Fade expert?’” Karl asked Varric.

“After the explosion, he showed up out of the woods. Cassandra already had you locked up, but it’s pretty tough to interrogate an unconscious prisoner whose life is slipping away. When he said he could help with the magic on your hand, she latched on to him like he’d claimed to be sent by Andraste herself.”

Leo choked up. “The Mark was killing you. Cassandra said she’d found a mage to temper it. I didn’t know who.”

“Convenient,” Varric said. “Means I got to meet you, instead of you dying. Then we’d be stuck with Cassandra in a frothing rage while the Breach swallowed the world.”

“I haven’t closed it yet, Varric.”

“Ah, ‘yet’—I like that. Your optimism can balance out my penchant for tragedies.”

“No more tragedies,” Karl said grimly, and led the way forward.

Cassandra and Solas paused just before the peak of the next rise to wait for them.

“Solas,” Karl said.

The elf turned, expression irritated.

“Thank you. For saving my life.”

The elf blinked in surprise and nodded gravely. “You are welcome.”

Over the hill came the cracking sizzle of another rift. Everyone drew their weapons and looked to Karl. It was odd, seeing others looking to Karl with such confidence. Thrilling, but odd. Pride swelled in Leo’s chest as he stepped to his brother’s side.

“Lady Pentaghast, keep the largest shade busy.”

She nodded.

“Solas, Varric, keep wraiths away from the troops. Leo and I will skirt around and take down the rift.”

As soon as they had all voiced their agreement, Cassandra charged over the hilltop with a roar, attracting the attention of all the demons. There were at least three wraiths and four shades, all constantly moving, and it was difficult to see through the pulsating waves of violently loud green magic that filled the clearing. Leo could barely make out more brown-clad soldiers taking shelter between a chest-high barricade and a tall gate of wood and stone that closed off the upper mountain.

They were at a cliff’s edge. The only way forward was the bridge beyond the gate. If they’d been a few minutes later, a never-ending stream of demons would have overcome the soldiers and burst through to whoever was beyond that door.

With a few swift shots, the mage and archer had the wraiths down. The soldiers popped up from behind the barricade and resumed their position in front of the gate.

Karl dropped stealth powder over himself and Leo.

The familiar cloud of black smoke was comforting this time, since it kept him close to Karl’s side. Speeding off together was a lot less scary than waiting for him to show up again.

Their cover fell when Karl reached out toward the rift. The magic reverberated over them both as Leo dogged and parried with a shade intent on tearing them apart. It got entirely too close to his face. The vicious creature looked like it should have a carnivorous smell, but the stench Leo choked on was burnt ozone.

The rift gave off a snap of green energy, stunning the demons, but they were still there.

An electric charge ran down Leo’s neck, making him flinch.

Karl let out a grunt of pain. “Won’t close until they’re gone,” he said, pulling his daggers and lunging after the shade.

The fight was as furious as the first one, but with more enemies. Karl let out another grunt of pain as he dispatched the last shade and his right arm fell limp to his side, barely keeping hold of his knife. He hurriedly sheathed his left weapon and raised his Marked hand to the rift. With a final _snap_ , the rift closed, leaving an eerie silence full of the fighters’ labored breathing.

“Sealed, as before,” Solas said. “You are becoming quite proficient at this.”

“The larger one was harder,” Karl cradled his injured arm against his side. He gave Leo a grateful look when Leo took his knife and sheathed it for him. “I don’t think I’ll be any good against the Breach, even with your help, Solas. I doubt you have enough mana to affect something like that.”

Solas tilted his head, pinning Karl with a speculative look that made Leo uneasy.

“Come,” Cassandra said, taking the lead once more. “Let us find a healer.”

The guards opened the gate with profuse thanks to the man who closed the rift.

Just a few feet down the bridge were tables and makeshift tents set up with armors and healers rushing to-and-fro, inspecting equipment and bandaging the wounded.

Cassandra ushered Karl to a stool in front of the healers’ tent and dragged over a mage to tend to Karl’s arm. The healer pushed on his shoulder and pulled on his wrist, eliciting a loud pop and a string of rather colorful curse words from Karl, who accepted an elfroot potion and gestured to Leo before he would drink it.

“Check this man’s eyes. He was hit in the face with wraith poison.”

A pang passed through Leo’s chest at the phrase “this man.” He’d always been “my brother” before, but Karl was the Chantry’s prime suspect, and if he wanted to distance Leo from that, Leo would respect his wishes. No matter how much he wanted to run down the bridge shouting about Karl’s innocence.

He sat on a stool and let the healer rinse his eyes with cool water. At least it didn’t have scratchy ice shards in it this time. A wave of warm healing magic coursed up his cheeks, as welcome as a cheerful hearth at home. “Thank you.”

“Of course, my lord.” The mage scurried off to another patient.

Further down the bridge, two voices rose above the bustle. The Left Hand argued with a Fereldan man.

“We must prepare the soldiers!” Leliana insisted, her Orlesian accent thickened by frustration.

“We will do no such thing.”

The stupid fool. If they were to survive the demons, they’d need every fighter they could find.

“The prisoner must get to the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Leliana said. “It is our only chance!”

“You have already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility.”

“ _I_ have caused trouble?”

“You, Cassandra, the Most Holy—Haven’t you all done enough already?”

In one breath, he’d insulted the three most powerful people in Thedas. Not a wise thing to do in front of Leliana.

“You are not in command here!”

He blustered on, “Enough! I will not have it!”

Karl sighed and heaved himself to his feet. “You ready?”

Leo nodded and followed, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric right behind.

As they approached the strategy table, Leliana came into view, alongside a middle aged man with a wrinkled white face red from the wind. He wore the white-and-red robes and little black sunburst hat of someone who sat in chantry basements and shuffled parchment around.

Roderick. Justinia hadn’t invited him to their meetings last summer. It hadn’t occurred to Leo before, but that had been odd. Grand Chancellor Roderick Asignon was responsible for communicating the Divine's will to the rest of the Chantry, along with all her personal correspondence.

Had Leo’s meetings with Justina been secret? He’d relied on his mother and the Divine to tend to the details. Perhaps he should have asked more questions. Or at least spoken of them publicly after the fact.

This man was now the highest-ranking Chantry official present, beholden only to the surviving Mothers in Val Royeaux, far east and across the Waking Sea.

The comfort Leo had found in his brother, their borrowed weapons, and the Seeker’s trust left him in a flood of cold terror. They were surrounded by anguished hostiles who needed a scapegoat.

Roderick glared and pointed at Karl, “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

-

Karl preferred Cassandra’s death threats. At least hers were part of an effort to figure out how to close the Breach. The Chancellor just wanted him dead. Publicly. After a long, shackled journey to another country.

“Order _me_?!” Cassandra glared back at the bureaucrat, diving straight into an argument. She wanted to press ahead. He called for a full retreat.

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Karl interjected when they both paused for breath. “No one can outrun the Breach.” Sharp pain flashed up his arm into his neck as the Breach threw more boulders. He clenched his sizzling fist closed and swallowed. “I’m your only answer.

“Cassandra, Leliana, things look different than when I walked this path before. How do we get there?”

Cassandra pointed past the bridge. “Commander Cullen holds the main path to the temple. We can charge with his soldiers, push through to the Breach.”

Leo gave her a blank look at the commander’s name, but Karl’s earlier intelligence gathering indicated that Cullen _Rutherford_ was the Templar recruited by the Chantry in anticipation of another bloody Inquisition.

There was no avoiding it after this tragedy. If the Breach didn’t kill them all today, _someone_ would start an Inquisition, even if Cassandra didn’t. That worry had to wait until after the immediate danger had passed.

A fat snowflake fell to Karl’s cheek and melted like a raindrop, reminding him of a rainy afternoon in a Circle garden: Lance’s happy freckled face flashed across Karl’s memory, the bubbling laughter and patter of rain a dim echo in Karl’s tight, empty chest.

No way could Karl keep his head if he came upon the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall on the battlefield now.

Leliana shook her head and pointed toward an old mining trail. “The mountain path is safer. We could pass undetected.”

“Too risky,” Cassandra said. “We lost contact with an entire squad—”

Karl held up a hand to stop the debate.

“We go in stealth. Through the mines.”

Karl led the way up the mountainside, where the snow came up over his ankles. Half-way up the cliffside, they had to climb two rickety wooden ladders and just hope that the winter winds or falling demons wouldn’t knock them off into a nasty, fatal fall.

The “mine” was a series of well-paved tunnels, complete with railings and stonework walls fit for chantry buildings.

The only life found there now were demons. With no rift to harshen the battle, they made quick work of the shades and wraiths that haunted the dim halls, and hastened out the back door into the cold winter air.

On the doorstep lay the bodies of four dead soldiers.

“We must find the others,” Cassandra said grimly.

“We will,” Karl promised.

He led the way down another rickety ladder and steep, icy steps. The biting wind pushed them up against the mountainside.

The itch in his palm grew worse, drawing him toward the next rift. A human cry of pain ahead spurred him to a run.

A handful of soldiers fought a constant stream of demons from the largest rift he’d seen yet.

“Lady Cassandra!” One of them cried out, “We’re overrun!”

Their energy was flagging. Everyone was clearly exhausted, barely parrying blows.

Along with the wraiths and shades, Karl finally had a look at the terror demons Cassandra had described down in the village: Green as the rifts, and obviously not of this world, with pointed teeth, angular limbs, and towering green bodies three times as tall as a human, despite how they stooped over as they walked on two feet. They crouched and melted down into the ground, only to pop up across the field, knocking soldiers to their backs and slicing with their claws.

One flung its head back in a scream that stunned the fighters closest to it.

“Solas!” Karl shouted, pointing as he ran. The mage froze the demon and Karl lunged forward to shatter it with his daggers.

Cassandra taunted the others, Varric picked off the wraiths, and Leo kept shades off Karl’s back while he disrupted the rift. The last terror fell to its knees and Cassandra lopped off its head.

Despite the searing fire in his palm, Karl raised his hand to close the rift—but another wave of demons was through already.

“Fuck!” There was no time for stealth.

An archer tripped and fell while trying to dodge a shade. Karl leapt between them, catching the demon in the throat with an uppercut of his knife. His injured shoulder screamed with the motion, despite the healing magic and elfroot potions he’d downed less than an hour earlier.

The shade fell to dust.

“Clear!” Leo shouted.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Karl reached up and snapped the rift closed.

The fallen archer looked up at him, eyes wide with wonder. It was preferable to how Roderick looked at him, but it wasn’t comfortable. When people looked at you like that, they either put your statue in a chantry, or burned you at the stake; or both, like they’d done to Andraste.

_I’m not Andraste._

“We’re here to help,” Karl said, offering the archer a hand up.

The captain of the squad limped over, cradling her left arm against her midsection. “You have our most sincere gratitude, my lord,” she bowed, fist over her heart.

That was not a gesture of respect Karl had ever expected to see granted to himself. He was no liege lord—his reputation guaranteed he’d never compete with Leo for the Trevelyans’ title—and he doubted the chantry or common folk would accept him as readily as the troops who valiantly fought at his side.

“We will find healing at the forward camp, then follow you,” she said.

“You’ve done well, Captain, but we don’t know where we’ll need you yet. Please wait for word at the camp.”

Karl looked to Cassandra. These were her troops, after all.

Cassandra stood taller and nodded her approval.

“On your order, my lord,” the captain bowed again and led her people out. “Quickly, let’s move!”

Karl watched their retreat. There were so few of them left, yet they held their heads high and helped their injured captain down the path. They would make it to the camp, but that wouldn’t be enough if he didn’t stop the Breach.

“The Temple proper is just ahead,” Cassandra said, voice low. “It is . . . grim. Twisted corpses on their knees burn like statues of bone, pleading with the Maker. You will see some suffered as they died. You are not alone with these horrors. We will push forward with you.”

Karl steeled himself and led the way. It was as horrifying as Cassandra had described. The ruin of the temple was terrifying enough, but the bodies shook his very soul: some kneeling, some flat, some missing pieces, and none of them recognizable as an individual.

They were like candles carved into the shape of blind skeletons and teeth. All life stripped away and replaced with evil. Any one of them could be human or elf.

In a corner, curled up on its side, was a tall, thick one, probably over seven feet in life, curled up around a smaller set of bones just as sturdy: a Qunari and a dwarf, perhaps. Someone’s guard detail? There had been a handful of human nobles and clerics who had them. The dwarves had also sent few representatives to remind the Chantry, Templars, and mages that the dwarves completely control their access to lyrium.

Cassandra stopped at Karl’s side, looking down somberly. “They held each other.”

“I didn’t do this,” Karl’s whisper echoed of the broken rock. “I don’t think they did, either.”

He turned to find, sheltered by three walls, the body of a Templar still intact in full armor and robes, untouched by fire. The body was bent in a disturbing angel.

“The blast broke his neck,” Leo said.

Karl bent down and eased the helmet off the Templar. The dead man’s pale white face was surprisingly peaceful, eyes closed like he was sleeping.

“I am sorry,” Cassandra said. “I do not know him.”

“His burden is over,” Karl said. “It is up to us, now.”

He checked the inside of the helmet. Clean and dry. “Cassandra,” Karl said, “You have shielded us every step of the way here. Will this fit you? Can you see well enough in it?”

She actually smiled. “Yes, I am able and willing to wear such protection. Perhaps, when this is over, I can return it to someone who cared for him, with my thanks.” She buckled it on.

Heavily engraved with Chantry and Templar symbols, the intimidating, square helmet surrounded her entire head. Her face wasn’t visible through the thin cross of space that let her see and breathe.

“You know, Seeker,” Varric said, “I thought you couldn’t get any scarier. I was wrong.”

Cassandra harrumphed, Solas chuckled, and Karl ignored them all. It took his entire will and focus to take that next step around the corner into the temple proper.

Leo gasped behind him.

They stood on a high broken balcony below the giant, now-headless statue of Andraste. Hovering in the center was a rift that filled nearly the entire worship space. It hovered at the second story, simmering with Fade magic and green crystals that shifted in and out of its center, like a giant, beating demon heart.

It felt different than the others. Karl’s hand itched and simmered, but the rift didn’t painfully pull at him.

Yet.

“This one’s not fully open,” he said.

“Correct,” Solas came to his side. “It is the largest, and the first. If closed properly, it may close the Breach.”

“What do you mean by ‘ _properly_?’” Leo asked sharply, moving up to stand on Solas’ other side. The elven apostate did not seem at all concerned to be between the Trevelyan brothers.

“I believe it can be opened with the Mark, and then sealed completely.”

The coursing power of each rift was larger than the first. Not even a mage could survive what he’d need to channel this one.

_This will kill me._

“ _Open_ a rift into the Fade?” Leo gave an incredulous squeak that Karl wished to echo, but Solas’ plan did make the most sense. Even if they had a year to strategize, he’d still have to do this part himself. As it was, they probably only had a few minutes. The Breach grew.

“Larger rifts mean more demons,” Karl said. “ _Bigger_ demons.”

Many booted feet approached and Cassandra looked over her shoulder. “Leliana is here with reinforcements. We will put them in positions surrounding the proper, archers above.” She jogged off across the broken foyer to meet them.

Fate of the world or not, Karl was going to risk a minute to say goodbye. His throat grew thick with tears.

“Solas, Varric, could Leo and I have a moment, please?”

“Of course,” Varric gestured for Solas to follow him down toward the other end of the balcony. The elf frowned, but went without comment.

Leo also openly wept. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Karl pulled him into a fierce hug. “There is no greater honor than being at your side, Leo. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They drew apart as Cassandra came back.

Karl drew his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. “Are you all ready?”

Brother, Seeker, mage, and storyteller all said yes. “Then let’s climb down into the temple proper, so we have room to maneuver around whatever this rift throws at us.”

They made their way along the edge of the balcony, through a hall that no longer had walls, and down broken steps.

“Red lyrium,” Varric hissed. Spikes of the virulent crystal protruded out of the ground and through the walls. “What’s that evil shit doing here?”

“Don’t touch it,” Karl said.

“Just _being_ near a small piece can drive you insane,” Varric said.

“The lyrium song is poisoned,” Solas said.

Irritated, Karl called them back to task. “Everyone focus on the rift. Once that’s dealt with, _then_ we can figure out how to dispose of the lyrium.”

A disembodied voice boomed out over the temple ruins:

_Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice._

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra demanded.

Solas answered, “At a guess: The person who created the Breach.”

“The rift holds memories?” Karl asked.

“Not precisely,” Solas said. “There was much death here, and spirits latch on to strong emotions, showing only one or two viewpoints at once. However, in this instance, I believe what we hear has not been altered from the initial event.”

The rift flashed forth, showing them all a watery green vision: A shadowy figure loomed over Justinia as she cried for help. Karl and Leo burst into the scene only to be thrown backward.

With another flash, the rift swallowed the vision.

Cassandra looked back and forth between the Trevelyan brothers, fists clenching and unclenching. She strode toward Karl, “You _were_ there! What happened?! The Divine—”

“I told you _I don’t remember_! But I sure as fuck didn’t attack her. Nor did I plot against her. Do you want to stop the Breach or not Cassandra? You can investigate the culprits after we make sure there’s still a world to investigate.”

She huffed out a breath and paced in a circle.

“Cassandra,” Karl sighed with regret. “She was your friend. What would she want us to do?”

Cassandra looked around at all the swords and archers along the perimeter and drew her weapon.

“Dorothea would want us to close the Breach. Whenever you are ready, open the rift. I will be your shield.”

Solas and Varric took up positions along the perimeter. Leo bolstered his right flank.

With a deep breath, Karl screwed up his courage and thrust his hand forward, willing for the magic to catch, for the rift to open.

For the power not to kill him before he could close it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to see Karl in action? Check out Karl Trevelyan gameplay on my new YouTube channel, [Paragade Blues](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCIIbVf05SC_yKqhOFyZbJNQ#_=_).


	4. Divine Decree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content includes Pride demon battle, some blood, and a passing reference to childhood trauma.
> 
>  

Pride, four great, twisted black horns rising up from its gray scaly head, burst forth from the rift. Karl instinctively raised his arm up to shield his brother, but what good could a little piece of human flesh do against a creature taller than the broken walls of the shattered temple?

The demon lunged forward on two legs. Glowing with purple lightning, it raised its massive arms overhead to generate guard over itself, _laughing_ with an evil boom that would haunt Karl’s nightmares forever.

Pride flexed its enormous three-fingered hands, its claws each bigger than a man’s arm. Spikes ran along its shoulders like wicked pauldrons. Its shell had rough layers like scale armor, and massive horns riddled with thorns protruded from its thick forearms.

All seven of its eyes were focused on the Trevelyan brothers.

“Holy shit,” Varric’s whisper carried despite the sizzling rift.

Electrified whips materialized in the demon’s hands. Karl yanked Leo sideways, rolling them both over the sharp rocks of the broken floor.

“Now!” Cassandra shouted.

The archers let loose a volley of arrows that bounced off the demon’s rough hide. One got through a soft point at its throat and the demon roared, lashing out a lightning whip at Cassandra.

Karl’s breath caught in his chest as the Seeker deflected the magic whips with her shield. A mighty clang rang out and the lightning deflected off. The demon growled in anger. Knees and elbows bent to absorb the blow, Cassandra didn’t even flinch. With a battle cry, she charged the Pride demon, bashing into its knee and lopping a horn off its elbow with her sword. When it raised its whips again, she rolled out of the way, calling out a taunt to have it follow her.

Foot soldiers ran up behind the demon, slicing at its legs, but its guard and armor were thick, and the blows just made the beast more agitated. It threw its arms open wide, spinning lighting in all directions.

Varric sprung clear with a leaping shot that took out one of its eyes. Solas threw down a barrier over the soldiers closest to the demon, too far away to help himself when a whip smashed down near his feet. The shockwave sent him flying back along the ground.

“Solas!” Karl fumbled for a potion from his belt and ran to the elf’s side.

Hands shaking worse than the last time his mother had locked him in his room, Karl helped Leo assist Solas to his feet. The mage’s nose bled freely down his chin. Angry red scrapes ran down his scalp and neck.

With a steady hand, Solas downed the elfroot potion. “You must close the rift properly.”

Karl didn’t waste energy with a reply. He dropped stealth powder around himself and Leo and sprinted for the rift.

“You’re welcome!” Leo called back to Solas as they ran. “Dick,” Leo muttered and Karl grinned. His brother was quiet when it came to himself, but Leo never could let it slide when someone didn’t acknowledge Karl’s contributions.

He was really going to miss him. Could you miss someone if you were dead?

He swallowed his fear and led Leo behind a broken column taller than the Pride demon. They’d lose their stealth as soon as he disrupted the rift.

He didn’t hesitate this time. Even before his shoulder hit the wall for cover, he raised his Marked hand toward the rift, grinding his teeth together to keep from crying out when white-hot pain shot through his arm.

The rift pulsed, spewing more shade demons, but also knocking Pride to its knees for a moment, giving Cassandra a chance to puncture its shoulder. Karl staggered and caught himself on the wall. Leo held off two shades while Varric and Solas picked off those trying to flank Cassandra and her soldiers.

“What do you need?” Leo shouted.

“I’m up!” Karl drew his daggers and jumped in to help Leo. A bolt from Varric’s Bianca passed through the last shade’s chest. The demon got a swipe in on Karl’s arm on its way down, but the claws didn’t get through his leather armor.

He ran for Pride. “Hamstring it!”

Leo and Karl went for Pride’s knees. Swifter than the swordsmen, they seemed to have more luck with their daggers than the soldiers had. Cassandra deflected more lightning and hewed at its arms. The mage, dwarf, and archers went after its head while the other soldiers helped Cassandra as best they could.

Three times they did this deadly dance, disrupting the rift, fighting more shades and wraiths, wearing down Pride, Karl certain that he would fall before he could close the rift.

Falling would be okay. It wasn’t so bad. It would be easy. He just needed to close the rift first.

The battle cries and smell of fresh human blood blended with the rift’s ozone stench. His head swam with the hiss of the rift, outraged roars of the demon, and clang of weapons.

The world narrowed. The demon’s giant feet shook the ground, but Karl couldn’t hear the stomps. Through a blood-tinged green haze, all he could see was the demon. He could _feel_ Leo fighting at his side, but everything else—everyone else—was lost.

His hands were shaking so badly, he dropped one of his daggers. With both hands he plunged the other so deep into the demon’s calf, it would never come out, eliciting a fresh roar that shook the world.

Karl could not hear it. He couldn’t even hear his own pounding heart.

He fell to his knees.

“Now! Seal the rift!” Cassandra’s shout didn’t register.

“It’s down! Cass got its throat!” Leo wrapped his arms around Karl, turning him toward the rift. “Please, Karl,” his voice broke. “You need to raise your hand.”

Raise his hand? Why?

Karl slowly turned his head down to look at his quaking fingers. One of his hands was glowing green magic.

“I’m not a mage.”

“I know, Karl,” Leo sobbed, “but you can do this.”

The arm was heavy. It took two tries to raise the glowing hand.

The world exploded.

-

Terrified, on his knees in a rocky pool of blood from Maker only knew who, Leo held his brother tight in his arms. “You can do this.”

As if in a trance, Karl slowly looked up at the rift, face blank. He lifted his tremulous arm half-way and it flopped back down to his leg.

“Forgive me,” Leo whispered through tears. He slid his hand gently under Karl’s elbow, eased his fingers up along Karl’s wrist, and helped him raise his hand.

The magic caught in a green bolt that reverberated between them and the rift.

Karl tilted his head, as if listening. He bent his wrist further back into Leo’s soft hold and flexed his fingers. With a green flash and boom, the rift closed, sending out white smoke and rocky debris in its wake.

The rift was gone. The demons were gone.

But the Breach remained.

The sickly green Breach silently swirled high above, amidst black and white clouds. Nothing further fell from the skies.

“So that’s how that works,” Karl’s voice was hollow. He did not try to move or look around, or even remove his wrist from Leo’s awkward hold.

Had he survived, only to not be himself?

“Solas,” Leo was careful not to make any sudden movements or loud noises. “What’s wrong with him?”

“It is not magic,” the elf answered. “Nor a demon, though I believe both may have contributed to his current condition.”

“Fatigue.” Cassandra came to their side, frowning at her notched blade. A soldier ran up with a fresh one for her and she passed the broken one off to him with a curt nod. “My people can get him a sled for the journey back down the mountain.”

Leo wiped his nose on his rough leather sleeve. “Thank you, Seeker.”

She nodded and sheathed her new blade. “You did well. Both of you.”

Legs shaking, hands on Karl’s shoulders to keep him upright, Leo got to his feet. Varric raised an eyebrow in inquiry and Leo shook his head. He wanted to do this himself.

“Up we go,” he said, just as he had when they were children. He lifted Karl into his arms and Karl curled up against him, legs dangling over one arm, back sheltered by the other.

Karl’s fingers curled around Leo’s collar, held on tight, his first show of emotion since before he’d opened that last rift. Leo allowed himself a sliver of hope: Perhaps Cassandra was right, and Karl would recover.

Carrying a grown man in such a fashion should not have been so easy. Maybe there was magic—benevolent magic—at work here after all. He had to walk the long way around to the broken stairs, but made it to the outer courtyard only a little winded.

A squad of soldiers stood in the snow, ready with a blanket-covered sled and a team of their own people ready to pull it. They all bowed.

Leo hesitated, reluctant to set Karl down.

“My lord,” the leader said, “There is room for you both. We would be honored.”

“Thank you.” The tears had stopped, but his throat was tight. With a little help from Varric and the squad’s captain, he got settled on the sled, Karl still in his arms, sitting more comfortably in his lap.

Karl sighed and promptly fell asleep, not releasing his hold on Leo’s jacket.

They made the first mile of the journey in silence.

Cassandra, Solas, and Varric walked within arms’ reach of where he sat, the soldiers arrayed further out as protection, though the mountain was quiet of everything except frigid wind. Not so much as a fennec or goat crossed their path. There was no birdsong.

Question upon question built up in Leo’s mind. When he opened his wind-chapped lips to speak, it was the most trivial question that spilled forth.

“Did you hear it _laugh_?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said, stride never faltering. “Pride laughs.”

“I’d prefer a dragon,” Varric muttered.

“No, no dragons,” Karl murmured in his sleep against Leo’s chest and nuzzled closer.

Leo sighed and rested his forehead against Karl’s cold scalp, where the short stubble of a few day’s hair growth was barely perceptible. He should have asked for a hat from the forward camp. He tried to pull the edge of a blanket up around Karl’s head, but the wind blew it off again.

Trotting to keep up with his longer-legged companions, Varric took a step closer to the sled and pulled a knit cap out from under his gaping lapel. It was warm from its shelter in the dwarf’s shirt. Leo nodded his thanks and pulled it over Karl’s head, tight down around his ears.

Then Varric pulled another from his other lapel and Leo chuckled. Varric pulled it onto Leo’s head.

Had anyone ever done something so simple and good for him, without request or reward? Only Karl.

“Thanks, Varric.”

“Any time, Trevelyan. Any time.”

The sled grated across the stone bridge of the forward camp, but Karl did not stir.

As they approached the village, Cassandra had the soldiers cluster close around the sled, shielding the Trevelyans from view of the agitated crowd. Between elbows and legs, Leo caught glimpses of Varric glowering at anyone who got too close. He couldn’t see Solas.

Leo rose from the sled, draping a blanket over Karl’s face so they couldn’t ogle him. The captain who had offered him the sled led him up a short set of stone steps, past a statue of Andraste’s mabari, toward a little wooden cottage.

“Is that him?” Someone in the crowd asked. “The one who killed the Divine?”

“No,” her friend elbowed her. “He’s darker and prettier than this one.”

Leo choked back a laugh. Karl would take up Varric’s invitation to fight a dragon before he’d want to catch a woman’s amorous attention.

“Besides, he didn’t kill the Divine. He was sent to _save_ her! Only she told him to save us instead.”

Leo slowed, listening while keeping his eyes straight ahead, on the door the captain held open for them.

“Andraste sent him!” the second woman went on giddily. “All in glowing gold, she sheltered him in the Fade, sent him to us in our darkest hour. He’s Andraste’s chosen! Hail the Herald of Andraste!”

“Hail! Hail!” a few voices rang up at her side while others grumbled low beneath them.

Leo stepped across the threshold into the little one-room cabin and the captain shut the door, leaving him alone with his sleeping brother. He gently lay Karl on the little double bed and collapsed into the straight-backed chair at the bedside, pulling Varric’s knit cap off his own head and scrunching it up in his hands.

A fire crackled high in the little fireplace, bathing Karl’s smooth brown face with warm orange light.

“They think you’re pretty.” Leo buried his face in the cap with a hysterical giggle, then sighed and leaned his head back against the hard chair.

“They’re also calling you the Herald of Andraste. I don’t think I need you to wake up for me to know what you think about that.”

There was a solid double-knock at the door. Leo sat up taller, schooling his face into the expression his mother called “presiding at court.”

“Enter.”

The guard opened the door and a willowy elf woman with sandy hair scurried in and bowed low. It was quite a feat, considering she carried a heavy, steaming bowl of fresh water.

She didn’t spill a drop.

“My lord, Lady Cassandra thought you might want to freshen up.”

“Thank you, Ser . . . ?”

“Oh,” she squeaked, arms shaking but not spilling the water. “I am Esme, my lord.”

Karl groaned and rolled over toward them, blinking sleepily. “Hi, Esme. I’m Karl.”

She squeaked again and hastily put the steaming bowl on the table at the foot of the bed.

“I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you've wakened. She said, ‘At once.’” The elf sped for the door. “‘At once,’ she said.”

“Sounds like Cassandra,” Karl said blearily, rubbing his eyes. “Ew, what’s on my hands?”

“No idea,” Leo sat back with a smile. “Glad to hear you sounding like yourself again.”

“Hmm? I wasn’t before? Well, I had accepted death.”

“Yeah.” Leo’s smile faded. His memories of the battlefield did not.

“Oh,” Karl sat up. “Is that fresh water?”

“Help yourself.”

“I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen clean water.” Karl untangled himself from the snow-dampened blanket and dropped it on the floor. He laughed. “No shit, and clean washcloths, too.”

He fumbled with his jacket, hands shaking from more than tiredness. Leo’s heart wrenched in his chest as he rose to help his brother out of his mid-weight leather armor. Leo carefully hung the blood-soaked jacket over the chairback.

“Thanks,” Karl beamed at him and whipped off his soiled shirt, tossing it on the seat. He winced and put a hand to his ribs.

Leo clasped his hands together, resisted the urge to rush forward. Karl would tell him if he needed help.

Karl dipped his hands into the bowl with a contented sigh, “Still warm.” He ladled water up over his face, rubbed a wet hand over his scalp. “Oh,” he groaned, “That feels so good.” He picked up a washcloth and frowned down at the bowl. “I’m sullying the water for you.”

“It’s okay. I’ll use some from the pitcher.”

“But it’s cold.”

“It’s fine, Karl. Really.”

Guard or no, Leo made sure the door was bolted from the inside and stripped out of his sullied armor and garments, laying each piece out over the chair, table, and mantle to dry.

Once they’d stripped out of everything and washed off all the blood and stale battle sweat, Leo rooted through the chest at the foot of the bed and found a couple of breeches and tunics. “Thank the Maker.”

He tossed a pair to Karl. “They’re a bit big, but you can put your belt through them and they should fit well enough. I was worried we’d have to put our grubby clothes back on.”

“No way, big brother.”

A warm rush of happiness flowed through Leo at being called “brother” again.

Karl pointed at the bed. “I would wear the quilt as a robe first. Can you imagine? Me strutting through Haven, chatting with the elven apostate whilst wearing a classy blanket.”

Leo laughed. “Quite the scandal for the Herald of Andraste.”

Karl’s eyes went wide and he clutched the borrowed shirt to his chest. Leo wanted to kick himself in the ass.

“What—what did you call me?”

-

“Fucking Chantry. Fucking dungeon,” Karl muttered as he strode through the front door of Haven’s chantry proper. Leo remained stoically mute at his side. Karl came to a stop in front of the door to the meeting room. “Fickety, feckety, fucking Templars,” he whispered and Leo sighed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Leo skeptically raised an eyebrow and Karl grinned. Anything was doable with Leo at his side.

“You’ll see.”

He took a deep breath and steeled himself. They could do this. _He_ could do this. It couldn’t be any worse than a Pride demon, right? He rubbed his clammy palms on his pant legs. Who was he kidding? The Chantry was more dangerous than a legion of Pride demons.

And if not for Leo, he wouldn’t have even gotten this far. Not only had he blanked out at _the_ key moment for closing the temple rift; when Leo had told him about the villagers calling him the Herald, he’d collapsed into a quaking pile on the bed of their cottage. He had no idea how long Leo had silently held him before the anger had wiped out the fear.

He straightened his shoulders, put on Mother’s “presiding at court” expression, and pushed open the door, marching straight past the two Templars on guard in the room.

Roderick was there—of course he was—pointing an accusatory finger straight at him. “Chain him! I want him prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”

Cassandra was bent over a map on a table in the middle of the room, Leliana at her side, arms crossed. The Seeker straightened and addressed the Templars. “Disregard that, and leave us.”

The two guards placed their fists over their hearts, bowed to her, and left the room, closing the door firmly behind themselves.

“That is not for _you_ to decide,” Roderick sneered.

Cassandra strode to the back of the room, picked something up off the back table, and strode back.

She slammed a heavy book on the table and tapped it with her gloved finger. The Chantry sunburst was engraved in the leather cover, held closed with a heavy metal clasp.

Nothing good ever came from that kind of book.

“You know what this is, Chancellor. A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

Well, that was quiet fanfare for the worst thing that could happen next. Not that it was unexpected. At least her glaring eyes weren’t pinned on him.

Leo stiffened and Karl shook his head, willing him to keep quiet.

Cassandra advanced on Roderick, who walked backward to avoid her.

“We will close the Breach,” she poked her finger in his chest, “We will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”

With one last glare, Roderick turned tail and left, slamming the door behind him.

Cassandra sighed and rubbed the back of her head.

A polite double-knock tapped on the door just before it opened and a curvy, dark-haired woman in gold satin ruffles and blue lace glided in, a blond brute of a man following in her wake like a grumpy puppy. He wore what looked like shredded brown bear fur over his shoulders. His bracers and other armor pieces peeked out from his over-large brown cloak, more conspicuous and less practical than Leliana’s.

Even without the new scar on his lips and accusatory stare, Karl would have recognized him from the paintings and drawings that came out of Kirkwall after the riots.

Cullen Rutherford.

Karl wanted to punch him.

“The Chancellor remains rather obstinate. He will be a problem,” the lady addressed the former Templar, her ars rolling like the beautiful seas of Antiva.

“I will watch him,” Cullen said. “He is a toothless snake. If we do not engage him in conversation, his influence will wane.”

“He still has a quill for writing, Commander. That is all the weapon he needs.” She turned toward the Trevelyan brothers with a formal bow.

“Lord Trevelyan, Herald,” Cassandra said. “May I introduce Lady Josephine Montilyet, our Ambassador.”

“Lady Montilyet,” the brothers bowed low in return.

“It is nice to finally meet you,” she said. “I’ve heard much.”

Karl’s lips twitched in amusement at the gleam in her eye. The “much” she’d heard certainly included his reputation as—what had Varric called him? Ah, yes, a “Heretical Rebel Supporter of Heresy” who loved violent apostates.

Cassandra continued, “And this is the leader of our forces, Commander Cullen.”

“Of Kirkwall,” Karl said flatly, all amusement gone.

"Honnleath, actually."

“Your Templar experience is what matters,” Karl barely refrained from growling. He ignored Leo’s concerned look and watched Cullen squirm. Instead of giving Karl satisfaction, the other man’s discomfort only made him more irritated.

“It is unfortunate that the Order has resorted to such extreme tactics,” Cullen said. “That is part of the reason why I accepted Lady Cassandra’s invitation. My full loyalty is to the Inquisition.”

Leliana’s ladylike snort was a welcome commentary.

“Sister Nightingale,” Karl turned his back on Cullen. “I look forward to working with you.”

He didn’t wait for a formal request to join. If there was going to be a bloody Inquisition, then nothing but death could keep him from limiting the bloodshed wherever he could.

“As am I,” Leo said, a stalwart, comforting presence at his side.

Their first meeting with the Inquisition advisors was short and intense. Leliana said the rebel mages under King Alistair’s protection at his uncle’s castle in Redcliffe could provide Karl with enough mana to seal the Breach. Cullen insisted the mages would make things worse, and that Templars could suppress the magic of the Breach long enough for Karl to close it.

Karl’s Marked hand itched. Cullen’s idea was ludicrous. He didn’t need Solas to tell him that the Templars would make it _harder_ for him to use his Fade magic to seal the Breach. Besides, even before Lance’s Tranquility and death, Karl had never met a Templar he trusted.

Cassandra didn’t care who they asked for help, just as long as they took action _now_ , and Josephine breezily declared that they didn’t have enough influence to attract allies from either faction.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Cullen and Josephine were in agreement on one thing, however. “Look for other opportunities to extend our influence.”

Right. Run around, rally everyone to the Inquisition’s flag. He, harborer of apostates, a new figurehead of the bloody Chantry. The ludicrous irony.

He was too tired to argue, or rage, or cry. Other than his short nap in Leo’s lap, Karl couldn’t remember when he last slept. Really slept, not been unconscious in a dungeon or fighting demons for this life. Sometime before the Conclave explosion.

“Fine, I will talk to Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands about a nice little meeting with the Chantry Mothers who want to kill me. We can sort out the details in the morning. We all need to sleep.”

He didn’t pay attention to whatever the others said in reply as they shuffled out of the room. Then he was alone with his brother.

Karl’s eyes and shoulders drooped. He was tempted to just lay down on the table and tell Leo to leave him there, lock the door on his way out.

“I’m proud of you,” Leo said. “You showed restraint with Rutherford.”

“Heh,” Karl’s humorless laugh garnered no smile from his brother.

“Leo, I knew this was what they were planning, trying for. An Inquisition. I even had papers suggesting the very details revealed tonight . . .” he shrugged helplessly. “And I didn’t tell you.”

Leo just smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, “You’re entitled to some secrets.

“Now, let’s get out of this drafty place and back to our cottage. Want me to carry you piggyback?”

“Fuck no,” Karl laughed. “You’re probably tired enough to drop me.”


	5. From Witchwood to Redcliffe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta readers for this chapter, SnuggleBonnet, [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata), and [geekyblackchic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyblackchic/pseuds/geekyblackchic). Thanks to [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/pseuds/RedEris) for help brainstorming Fereldan names; I chose Conal from your Irish list.
> 
>  

Rogue Templars and Rebel mages fought to the death within a few hundred yards of the Crossroads. Inquisition Scout Lace Harding strung her bow and held it ready at her side, watching from the hill. She wasn’t about to let their violence bleed over into the little village-like meeting of roads, where Mother Giselle attended to refugees and Lady Pentaghast’s fallen soldiers.

They’d been warned to steer clear, but turned on the Inquisition soldiers instead of running.

 _Thwat, thwat, thwat_ , Lace felled a mage and two Templars with three arrows in quick succession.

A holler rose up behind her, followed by the pounding of a single set of boots on the trampled grass. She spun sideways, dropping to one knee as she drew another arrow from her quiver.

The Templar froze in horror, eyes wide, mouth working soundlessly as his body convulsed, like a puppet pulled by magic.

Nock, draw, release. Quicker than his next terrified blink, her arrow hit him dead in the eye, sending him flying on his back with a squelching thud.

The path was eerily quiet.

She looked up, searching for the source of the magic.

Half-hidden by an abandoned hut stood a tall human with the sleek olive skin of northern climes. His black moustache was artfully sculpted over his upper lip and he openly carried a mage’s staff. His white and silver robes draped him in noble fashion.

This was no Circle rebel from Witchwood.

She nodded her thanks and he flashed her a brilliant white smile. With a wink of his eye and over-elaborate wave of his hand, he summoned a billowing cloud of purple smoke that sparkled like diamonds and he vanished behind the hut.

“Harding!” the elven scout Ritts ran to her side, two more agents close on her heels. “Were you hurt?”

“No. Thank you, I’m fine. Ritts, Ava, make sure all the bodies are dead.”

The elven women confirmed no survivors. Ritts’ friend Conal, a pale human man prone to worry and triple-checking gear, collected all the undamaged arrows he could find and helped the ladies move the bodies to a nearby clearing. They’d have to make a pyre. Chopping wood was still less energy expended than digging graves.

The wind was blowing the right way, but the smell of burning human flesh was still going to be unpleasant.

Lace unstrung her bow, cleaned the rest of her gear, and sat on the hilltop to compose a field report for Leliana.

_Skirmishes encroaching on Crossroads. Templar patrols approach Redcliffe Farms. Please advise._

Ava brought her a red-striped raven from one of the wooden cages, the bird’s wings carefully cradled against its sides within her hands. Lace rolled the message tight, slid it into a little gold cylinder, and tied it to the bird’s leg with a leather strap. Ava released the bird into the air and it flew into the bright spring sunlight.

Lace had to shade her eyes with her hand to follow the raven’s progress. Ava wore a scout hood that half-covered the green Mythal vallaslin on her brown forehead. She had never mentioned which clan she was from, and Lace didn’t pry.

“Ava.”

“Yes, Ser?” She was almost faster at following orders than Lace was at giving them. She never appeared overeager; nor could she be cowed. It was refreshing.

“How close can you get to Redcliffe Village?”

“However close you need me.”

“There hasn’t been trade between there and the Crossroads in days, and no patrols by the Arl’s soldiers. I need to know whatever you can tell me.”

Ava bowed and flitted silently off into the woods, profile low, dual blades sheathed on her back to blend in with her muted green-and-gray Inquisition uniform. She was as untraceable as shadows, despite the sunlight.

Lace left the other two scouts in charge of the pyre and hiked the half-mile back to camp to send a couple of soldiers down as reinforcements. Even in daylight, any fire that large could attract rogue Templars.

That left about a dozen troops with her to guard the camp.

“Nothing to report, Ser,” the quartermaster told her.

“Thanks, Lisa. Hank.”

The burly guard gave Lace a grave nod and she tried not to giggle. He was Lisa’s serious, silent shadow, and even after three weeks sharing camp, Lace had yet to hear him speak. The one time he’d made a noise at the campfire was a low, gravely laugh at one of Lisa’s jokes.

Lace was just finishing up a steaming cup of ram stew—thank the Maker Leliana insisted that each camp include at least two people who knew how to make rations taste good—when a pair of horses’ whinnies rose over the hill.

“Easy there, Ace,” a man laughed. “It’s not a race.”

“He knows better than to sass his sister.” The other man’s voice had a similar rich timbre, with an additional coarse under layer. His happy affection was still clear. “Pepper always wins.”

The guards came to attention, setting down their mugs, just as Lace did.

Over the hill came a group of horses, all Fereldan Forders.

Clearly brothers, the young human men riding in the lead had lovely dark brown skin, black hair cropped so short they were practically bald, and the straight carriage of nobility. They were followed by a bald white elf mage, a blond dwarf man—Solas and Varric, Leliana’s messenger had called them in yesterday’s report—and Seeker Pentaghast.

Lace didn’t know if the mage always scowled, but she’d never seen Lady Cassandra’s storm-cloud look change. The Right Hand of the Divine didn’t have anything to be happy about these days.

The man in front dismounted and patted his horse. “Be good.”

His brother followed and took the reins for both horses. “Trevelyan horses are always good, Karl.”

Karl Trevelyan. The Herald. That must make the other one Leo Trevelyan.

Leo Trevelyan kissed his mare’s nose, a bay with shining white blaze down the middle of her face. “Aren’t you?”

She nickered and nuzzled his neck while the other horse snorted and pawed at the dry grass with his foot.

“You too, boy.” He kissed the gelding’s nose as gently as he would a lady’s and the horse practically preened.

“Good morning.”

Lace startled. She’d been so fascinated by the man making kissy faces at the horses that she’d not noticed the Herald had come to stand before her.

“Herald of Andraste!” She was grateful her voice didn’t squeak. “It’s an honor to meet you, my lord.” She snuck a peek at his brother, who was absently petting his brother’s horse while he watched their conversation.

“Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. I—all of us here—we’ll do whatever we can to help.”

The blond dwarf took a few shaky steps from his horse, then looked up at her with a smirk. “Harding, huh? Ever been to Kirkwall's Hightown?”

Not the first time she’d heard that question, but she’d play along. Until she could turn the joke back around on him. “I can’t say I have. Why?”

“You’d be Harding in—”

“Varric!” the Herald’s brother glared at him.

“Oh, never mind.” Varric said, looking sheepish.

An odd flutter rose in her chest. She could have handled the raunchy writer, but it was nice to have someone else stand up for her.

Karl Trevelyan honored her with a bow. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Scout Harding. Karl and Leo Trevelyan.” His brother gave her a shy smile. “Solas, Varric Tethras. And Seeker Pentaghast.”

“It is good to see you again, Harding,” Cassandra said.

“My lady.”

“Sorry we didn’t make it yesterday,” Karl said. “We negotiated with the horsemaster with some success and camped at Redcliffe Farms. Leo and I brought our own mounts from home, but I hear your agents need more.”

They’d shipped their own horses across the Waking Sea, just for the Conclave? The Trevelyans must be very wealthy indeed. Lace was glad she’d taken the time to clean her gear before the mid-day meal.

“You have Fereldan horses in Ostwick, my lord?”

“Yes,” he grinned. “Ace and Pepper’s parents escaped the Blight and came to our family. Don’t worry, Scout Harding, we Marchers have taken good care of them. And I’m glad we could do a few small tasks for Redcliffe Farms as thanks.”

Varric grinned and clapped Karl on the elbow. “The Herald is being modest, Scout Harding. He closed several rifts, defeated dozens of demons, and wrestled with packs of wolves to secure the safety of Redcliffe Farms and garner the eternal gratitude of Mistress Elaina and Master Dennet. And _then_ he cleared out the hidden Templar stronghold on the river. With our help, of course.”

Karl snorted. “ _One_ wolf pack. Two rifts, Varric, while you picked off little wraiths and Cassandra felled a terror. As for the wolves, I wish we could have freed them without killing so many.”

“Yeah,” Leo said quietly.

A noble sentiment so rarely found in nobles.

“But, yes,” Karl said. “Redcliffe Farms is relatively safer now.”

“And the Templars?” Lace asked.

“Oh, they weren’t interested in talking,” Varric said grimly. “Those deserters are definitely dead.”

Karl cleared his throat and Varric stepped back, quiet.

“We’ve sent some troops to claim and clean the camp,” Karl said. “Cassandra says this should make the King’s Road safer. I’d like to check on the Witchwood mages, too. They’ve run off from Fiona’s group, but maybe I can talk them down. Any ideas where to look for their stronghold?”

Lace nodded. “Yes, there’s a trail just northwest of the Crossroads that sees a lot of mage traffic. They’re probably in some caves or stolen tents that way. I’ll draw you a map.”

“You’re a cartographer?” Leo Trevelyan asked, eyes lighting up.

She shook her head, wishing she was worthy of that excitement. “No, my lord, but I grew up here. I can sketch a Hinterlands trail well enough for anyone to follow without getting lost.”

“That’s still a wonderful talent.” He gave her an encouraging smile.

With a devilish glint in his eye, Varric opened his mouth to speak, but Karl nudged him and shook his head.

It only took Lace a few minutes to sketch the map and talk the Herald through the landmarks they’d pass. Getting them to Witchwood was easy. The trick would be finding the mage stronghold once they left the trails, and not getting lost on the way back. Maybe she should offer to go along.

“Have you spent much time cutting cross-county, my lord?”

Karl Trevelyan smiled kindly, clearly understanding the reason behind her question and not begrudging her for it. “A few times. We might move a bit faster if you led us, but I’m sure I can get us back before dark. Tonight, we can plan further. If you are available tonight? I would be most grateful.”

“Of course, Your Worship.”

With smooth precision, the Herald had his party fed, freshened, and riding off within the hour.

“Now there’s a lovely pair to watch ride,” Lisa said with a wink. “Friendly, were they?”

“The Herald was very polite.”

“Contrary to his rough reputation, though I do enjoy me a tumble with a wild rogue.”

Lace just raised an eyebrow, not rising to the bait.

“His brother, on the other hand—what was his name, Leo?” Lisa feigned a huge sigh, hands over her heart and fluttering her eyelashes. “ _He_ is a gentleman worth wooing. Did you see how he kissed those horses? Just imagine . . .” Another sigh.

The thought of Lisa Kelly seducing the Herald and his brother in their tent made Lace’s stomach clench.

“You planning on wooing the Trevelyans, Quartermaster Kelly?” she asked sharply.

Lisa laughed. “No, Scout Harding, but I did bet Hank I could make you blush. He said it wasn’t possible. I won.”

“ _Li-sa!_ ” Lace hissed under her breath, feeling her cheeks heat further. She probably looked like a freckled tomato, which was _not_ a good way to keep the soldiers’ respect. The blush was a new and unwelcome sensation. Kisses were nice, so was hooking up, but she’d never blushed or batted an eyelash in her life.

“Hey,” sobering, Lisa placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. We all love you and want you to be happy. Or, at least, none of us can complain about how many times you’ve saved our asses. Chat him up at the campfire tonight. See where it goes.”

“You want _me_ to seduce the brother of the Herald of Andraste?!” Lace squeaked. “A Marcher Noble?”

There, that was why. He wasn’t some merchant selling fine dwarven crafts, or a barmaid.

“A man with fine brown eyes who paid you a compliment, Lace. Chat him up. Doesn’t mean you have to shag him.”

Lace sputtered. Another first for her, and she did not like it one bit. She grabbed her quiver and bow. “I’m going to check on the pyre.”

“You going to ask him to light your fire?” Lisa called after her, but Lace didn’t respond.

She had her blush under control by the time she got to the clearing. The other two scouts would converse quietly from time to time, but were happy to sit together in silence, keeping watch.

When the fire died down, she helped Ritts and Conal shovel dirt over the last of the embers, and they hiked back to camp together for their evening chores.

The sun had just sunk below the hilltop when the already-familiar sound of the Trevelyan brothers’ low voices carried up into camp, along with the steady, dull clop of hooves on grass. A moment later they came into view, expressions grim. The Seeker, mage, and dwarf were silent.

Agents who had already finished dinner hurried forward to take charge of the horses while the Herald’s party cleaned up.

“Thank you, Hank,” Karl said, pulling something small from his pocket and handing it over. “Ace only gets the sugar cube if he lets you pick his hooves.”

“Yes, Messere.” Hank’s voice was just as resoundingly deep as Lace had imagined it would be.

“‘Ser’ is fine, Hank.”

The burly guard nodded and guided the gelding away as gently as a child.

Leo whispered something in his mare’s ear before she was led away. He stood there looking at the ground, shoulders sagging.

“My lord?” Lace asked, and Leo looked up, sorrow heavy in his shining brown eyes. The sad weight lodged itself in her chest, crushing the air from her lungs, and she had trouble getting the next words to flow past her lips. “The mages at Witchwood?”

“No survivors,” he said dimly. “No,” he took a shaky breath and looked toward his brother, who had slumped down to sit on a stump and covered his face with his hands. “No survivors.”

Full dark blanketed the camp. Cold creeped across the ground, up over Lace’s shoulders.

The Herald’s traveling party cleaned up and settled around the fire with their stew cups.

Varric settled on a log seat next to Lace. “Even the non-magic folk knew we were near when we came across towering ice spikes sticking up out of the ground. I mean, what purpose did those serve, other than to give away their location?”

Solas sniffed. “They were the remnants of an ice wall, Child of the Stone. It was likely erected for protection, with no thought for subtlety. Someone had damaged it before we arrived there.”

“You do know I’m a surface dwarf, right, Chuckles? Because we’re up here? On the surface?”

“We had a grim responsibility today,” Lady Pentaghast said. “But it was necessary.”

Leo looked to his brother. The silent Herald stared into his stew cup, listlessly stirring his spoon over and over and over again.

Ava appeared at Lace’s side and sat on the log beside her, making Varric start and spill his stew. If the mood hadn’t already been so bleak, Lace might have smiled at his discomfort. Ava had clearly let a few footfalls be heard when she reached the camp; it was a courtesy she gave all the scouts, though no one had ever asked for it. Varric might be a rogue, but he was a _city_ rogue. More eyes than ears.

“Andraste’s tits,” he muttered, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping ineffectively at the gravy on his jacket, a pretty but foolish ornamental thing that left half his hairy chest exposed to danger.

“Lace,” the elf’s voice held a tension Lace had never heard before, even when surrounded by charging Templars. “The Arl rode for Denerim with his entire guard. Days ago.”

Everyone stopped eating.

Lace’s heartbeat quickened. Her fears for the area hadn’t even hinted at something this big. “What? Why? Then who’s the Steward of the village?”

“Grand Enchanter Fiona’s people are still there, but they’re not in charge. She indentured them to a Magister. Gereon Alexius.”

“ _Fiona_ sold the mages into _slavery_?!” The Herald leapt up from his seat and thrust his stew cup into his brother’s hand.

The righteous fire in his eyes made Lace shiver. _This_ was where his reputation had come from.

“How many Tevinters?” he asked, lowering his voice, but still clearly incensed.

Ava didn’t flinch. “At least fifty, my lord. Likely more in the castle.”

Tevinter was run by “noble” human mages, many of whom practiced blood magic and terrorized their slaves, elves and humans alike. Being born without magic automatically put a person in the lower classes. Tevinter Magisters, their ruling class, were as disgusting as Darkspawn.

The only good Lace had ever heard about one was for Magister Maevaris Tilani, after she’d married the dwarf Thorold Tethras, who’d recently died in an accident.

With a start, Lace realized that she was sitting next to the man’s cousin. What did Varric think of this Tevinter business? Judging from his scowl, not much.

“Redcliffe in the hands of a Magister,” the Herald growled. “We cannot let this stand.”

The Seeker stood. “I agree. Yet Arl Teagan has gone to Denerim for help, Herald. King Alistair will promptly send hundreds of troops to free the Arling. We must expedite our journey to Val Royeaux and report this there; the Chantry _must_ help us if the Imperium has invaded the South. Loyal Templars and Seekers should be deployed to combat the Magister’s mages.”

“Cass,” Leo warned in a low voice.

The Seeker glared at him. “Leo, we do not have time to waste. This is the best course.”

Lace hadn’t known her mood could plummet lower. The Seeker called Karl “Herald,” and his brother by name. And he—he—well, they clearly had a history. Lace was glad she hadn’t taken Lisa’s advice. How could she compete with a Nevarran warrior princess with sculpted cheekbones?

A _human_ Nevarran warrior princess with sculpted cheekbones.

“She is right,” Solas said. “King Alistair will tend to his responsibilities. The clerics in Val Royeaux grow impatient. They will not wait forever for you to prove you are not a demon to be feared.”

“Have you ever been a slave, Solas?” Karl demanded.

The elf raised a haughty eyebrow. “No. I cannot say that I have been a slave.”

“You plan to address the Chantry mothers in Orlais?” Ava asked.

Guilt wrapped a fierce hand around Lace’s spine. That should have been her question, but she’d been busy feeling sorry for herself, more preoccupied with a human man she’d just met than doing her job.

Karl scowled into the campfire, his back toward the Seeker. “On the way to Witchwood, we cleared warring mages and Templars out of the Crossroads,” he said. “They got within feet of Mother Giselle’s patients, so it’s a good thing we arrived when we did.”

He clenched his fists. “The Revered Mother is arranging a meeting for me with Chantry leadership, even though they’ve labeled us all heretics.

“That will just make things worse,” he muttered more to himself than to the rest of them.

Leo set the brothers’ mugs down and put and arm around Karl’s shoulders. The younger Trevelyan allowed it.

“The Chantry can wait another two days,” Karl raised his chin but did not turn around. “We can make it to Redcliffe Village before noon tomorrow. We _have_ to know what’s happened to the free mages. If I’m going to be killed by a mob of Orlesian zealots, I’m first going to do my damnedest to liberate Redcliffe.”

“But the rebels—” The Seeker protested, and Karl interrupted her.

“Either need our help or need to be stopped. We’re closer than Denerim and they cannot wait for aid. I ride on swift wings at dawn, Cassandra. Alone, if I have to. It will end poorly for us all if you try to stop me.” Green sparks flew from his left hand to the ground, igniting eerie embers in the grass. He clenched his fists again and the embers were extinguished too.

“This could go tragically wrong,” Varric said, “but I’m in.”

Leo led Karl away from the campfire’s light until they were just two silent shadows leaning on each other, standing in a deeper darkness from their hilltop overlooking the Hinterlands. The moonlight and starlight were not enough to do more than give a watery impression of their form.

Many long minutes later, the Trevelyans retired to their tent. Everyone else wandered off to their own bedrolls, just as somber.

There were no jokes at their pre-dawn breakfast, not even from Varric or Lisa.

When Leo Trevelyan mounted Pepper, his riding posture was perfect, but his eyes still held the sadness he’d gained at Witchwood. Lace had seen the same look on Mayor Murdock’s face when the dead had risen from the lake in Redcliffe ten years ago, before Lady Cousland’s party had swooped in and saved the village: It was the look of a man who did not expect to return. Death would not allow it.

The sun sprung up over the hilltop.

Lace couldn’t bring herself to wave or say goodbye as the Herald’s traveling party spurred their horses to run as fast as was safe across the uneven grasses. The brothers’ mounts easily jumped a low stone wall while the others skirted around, Varric’s curses carrying across the wind back to camp.

Ava came to her side. “It will all turn out all right in the end.”

“How?” It was the first time she had doubted, and it hurt. Like a dull knife thrust through her sternum.

“I can’t say. But it will. Ancestors watch over you.”

That made Lace laugh. She’d never prayed to the Ancestors. She was a Surfacer. Should she ever travel to Orazmmar, a true Child of the Stone would not consider her worthy of their time.

“Mythal’enaste,” Lace did her best to pronounce it properly. _Mythal’s favor_ seemed an appropriate send off.

Ava grinned and ran off into the trees toward Redcliffe. Lace didn’t know if she could keep pace with the Trevelyans’ party on foot, or if she’d secure a horse. It didn’t matter. Whatever happened in Redcliffe, the scout would come back to Lace with news.

The cool spring wind turned warm as it whispered across her shoulders, up the back of her neck and over her ears.

Staring down the empty road, her mind cleared. She would follow. She knew Redcliffe better than even Ava. The Magister would be trouble, and Leo and Karl would need a guide familiar with all the escape routes.

“Lisa?” Decision made, she turned to look for her, only to find Quartermaster walking toward her, leading a saddled Fereldan Forder, the stirrups shortened as far as they would go.

“I’ve filled your saddlebags with extra rations and magic-resistant amulets.” She got down on one knee to give Lace a fierce hug. “Keep them safe, okay?”

“Thank you,” Lace whispered and kissed her cheek. She stood on a log to reach the stirrup and swung herself into the saddle.

The Quartermaster waved her off. “Send those Tevinters into the Void.”


	6. Trap, or Trust?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, SnuggleBonnet and [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata). And thank you to [Bryn Donovan](http://www.bryndonovan.com/) for her last-minute support via chat.
> 
>  

The Herald of Andraste had come to Redcliffe. He’d marched right up to the main gate and requested an audience with Magister Gereon Alexius. He would not say how he knew of the Magister’s presence. Nor would he say whether his Inquisition’s army stood ready to flood the village, or if King Alistair’s army was coming. Now, he met in the Gull and Lantern with the Magister himself. Nearly everyone stood outside the tavern, crammed elbow-to-elbow to try to catch a peek of the negotiators when they came out.

The entire village was abuzz. Dorian shivered. Too bad gossip couldn’t keep a body warm.

From the shadows cast by the Redcliffe chantry’s eaves, he watched the fake Chantry sister hawk her stolen wares in the sunlight. Her prices were a bit steep, even considering the war economy, but she didn’t ask her customers questions. Nor did she hold any particular derision toward elves, dwarves, mages, or Tevinters. If he had to run again, he would keep her services in mind.

Felix should have passed his note to the Herald by now, requesting a secret meeting here, beyond the eyes and ears of Gereon. It would be a delicate meeting. Dorian was likely the most charming man in Thedas, but that didn’t mean the Inquisition would trust him.

He sighed at the muddy condition of his boots and yearned for a hot bath in a real tub. At this point, he would even be grateful for a clean wooden tub in a common man’s inn, but he couldn’t risk being recognized. The bright spring sun did nothing to warm him. It was frightfully cold in the South, whatever the season.

The minutes dragged on, yet Dorian was too wise to wish time moved faster.

A small, well-armed traveling party came over the rise, intent on the path toward the chantry he hid beside. Dorian waited. His father’s agents had tried to trap him before.

This group appeared genuine. The travel dust coating their gear was real. He recognized the Seeker’s Nevarran nose, the dwarf author from a scandalous painting. They weren’t likely in disguise. There was something in the set of their shoulders, similar to his own: they were there as themselves. It was the type of determination you could only find in your own identity, even when opposed by the entire world. He’d never met an actor who could fake it.

The two Marcher noblemen in front were unknown to him. Brothers, a few years apart in age. They had the same lovey rounded nose and square jaw, while the older one’s brown skin was lighter and more weathered. He appeared to be deep in an argument with the dwarf.

“Everyone stares at the Trevelyan brothers, Varric. This isn’t one of your books, and a fine agent like Scout Harding isn’t about to swoon at my feet.”

Trevelyan. From what Felix had told him, this was the Herald of Andraste and his older brother.

“I was more thinking _she’d_ sweep you off yours.” Varric swooped his hands out like revealing a scene on stage, “Picture it.”

The younger brother laughed so hard he had to stop and lean on his knees for support, his deep voice echoing over the clearing the most joyous sound Dorian had heard in months. His brother glared at him.

“That’s ridiculous,” the elder brother told the dwarf. “What interest could she have in a scarred, stuffy Marcher noble who gets lost if he doesn’t have a map?”

“Scars, huh?” Varric asked slyly, pulling a quill from his pocket. “Where?”

The younger Trevelyan doubled over again. “An—” he gasped for breath, “And don’t forget your stables full of pretty ponies and your large, loving family, Leo. No way she’ll be able to resist you then.”

Leo’s irritated frown turned to sad concern, but his brother didn’t seem to notice.

The Herald wiped a tear of mirth from his eye and straightened. “Oh, look, it’s Sister Tanner.” His next chuckle was ominous instead of mirthful. “Would you like to do the honors, Seeker?”

Dorian couldn’t hear the low words spoken to the smuggler, so he skirted around the back of the chantry to the other side for a better look.

“Shit,” the fake sister said. “You can’t prove anything. So, what are you going to do?”

The Herald appeared unfazed by her impertinence. “Before deciding punishment, Cassandra, could we hear the charges?”

“Let’s see. Impersonating a sister. Smuggling. Dishonoring Chantry robes . . . I can think of more, if you like.”

Tanner crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. Dorian admired her resolve. The only thing more harshly punished than stealing from the Chantry, was pretending to _be_ the Chantry. He wondered if they still drowned smugglers who impersonated Chantry sisters. It was a fate he would not wish on anyone.

“Or,” the Seeker went on, “You could work for the Inquisition. Gather information and resources.”

“And I could keep my business?”

“That depends on how well you serve,” the Seeker said.

“All right, then. I’ll work with the Herald of Andraste.”

Tanner offered Karl a handshake, which he immediately accepted. “No need to declare my title out here,” he said. “Karl will do.”

She glanced sharply at the Seeker and his other companions.

“It’s okay,” Karl said. “I’ll call you Tanner for now. You can tell me later if you’d prefer another name.”

When the Seeker huffed and led the others toward chantry, Karl unclipped a pouch from his belt and handed it to Tanner. “Give the refugees a discount. I don’t like bullies—that includes merchants who overcharge.”

“Understood, my lord.”

He turned to go.

“My lord?”

He turned back. “Yes, Tanner?”

“When . . . when did you go hungry?” When he didn’t answer right way, she said, “I recognize the look.”

Dorian squinted and leaned forward. Whatever Tanner saw was invisible to him.

“As a child, Tanner,” Karl said, more softly than the light breeze from the sea.

“Me, too,” she stared down at the hefty bag of coin in her hand. “I will do right by you. I swear it.”

“No more markups, Tanner. But don’t sell yourself short.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Just as the Herald turned back toward the chantry, green Fade light flashed from his palm and he gave a strangled grunt of pain.

Tanner gasped, and the Herald’s predicament was worrisome, but Dorian was more focused on a clamor likely audible only to a mage: a fresh tear rent in the Fade, making a rift inside the chantry. It sounded like a hole big enough for nasty demons.

Dorian prayed the Maker had sent him the real Herald of Andraste and not an imposter, or what he was about to do would ensure his demise. He darted from his hiding place, in through the side door of the chantry, instinctively rolling out of the way of a wraith’s poisonous spray before he took note of what kind of demons had invaded the holy space.

He cast a purple barrier over himself and danced further away from swiping talons. Shit. Perhaps he should have first made sure the Herald’s party planned to enter the chantry. And if they were on their way, he hadn’t even called out a warning to them.

“Lovely. Wraiths and terror demons,” he addressed the nearest gangly creature. “And here I thought I’d get to banter with Desire.”

The terror shrieked, but Dorian’s barrier made him immune to its stunning spell.

“Now, now, no need to shout, just because you’re not my first choice of dance partner.” He froze it with a blast of ice from his staff and it shattered.

A deep chuckle made him risk a glance toward the main door, where the Herald led his party through, weapons drawn. He was _smiling_ , while his companions remained grim. The candle light and green Fade essence reflected beautifully off his deep brown eyes and rich brown skin.

Flawless.

“May I cut in?”

Maker, had his voice been that sexy when he’d spoken with the fake sister? The authoritative baritone timbre was going to be a problem—no one could possibly be immune. Dorian covered his lust-induced distractedness with a flippant reply.

“Good, you’re finally here. Now help me close this, would you?”

“With pleasure.”

Sweet Andraste, if the man said another word before they’d dispatched all the demons, Dorian was going to get himself killed.

“I hate the green ones,” the elder Trevelyan growled, dropping stealth powder and disappearing behind a stone column.

“My good man,” Dorian called after him, “they’re _all_ green.”

“He means the wraiths,” the Herald lashed out a grappling chain at one. Dorian’s heart lurched when Trevelyan flew across the chantry proper to down it with a single swipe of his daggers. The man had as much grace as he did.

“Face full of poison would make anyone grumpy,” the Herald raised his voice over the sizzling rift to carry back across the room.

With a shaky breath, Dorian helped Varric and the elven mage pick off the wraiths while the Seeker felled the final terror. The battle was a blur of instinctual movements, throwing spells and swinging his staff’s blade without pondering strategy. At the end, Dorian found himself back-to-back with Trevelyan, armored shoulders touching as they leaned on each other.

“Now!” the elf shouted.

“Yeah, yeah, Solas,” the Herald said dismissively, then muttered under his breath, “I know what the fuck to do with my own hand.”

Dorian laughed and turned to watch Trevelyan perform his own special brand of magic.

To his utter surprise and heart-pounding delight, Trevelyan met and held his gaze while he lifted his hand toward the rift. Trevelyan winked and closed his fist. With a flash of green lightning and a resounding crack, the rift was gone, leaving a deafening echo that throbbed in Dorian’s ears.

“Fascinating,” Dorian breathed out, all too aware that they stood a mere arm’s length apart, breathing the same heady air. “How does that work, exactly?”

“I make a connection, then I close it.”

Dorian laughed, “You don’t even know, do you? Just wiggle your fingers and—boom, rift closes.”

“I have to be intentional about it,” Trevelyan said, turning his now-normal-looking palm upward. “My Mark will give off the occasional spark, but the real power only comes forth if I think about it.” A little flash of sparks rained down to the floor as harmless as rose petals.

“It is not a parlor trick, Herald,” the elf said sharply.

Trevelyan matched his glare. “Solas. Don’t. Call me that.”

So, Andraste’s chosen seemed to have a problem with the Chantry. Good to know before he committed the same faux pas the apostate hobo had. Then again, judging from their glares, this was an already old argument between the two. It was a perfect opportunity for Dorian to make himself indispensable.

“Lord Trevelyan,” with a flourish of his hand, he bowed. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. At your service.”

The Seeker huffed and crossed her arms.

Dorian bowed to her as well. “Lovely to finally meet you as well, Lady Pentaghast.” Even without the stories, he knew better than to try to kiss the hand of a well-armed lady who glared daggers. Also, rumor had it that if one called the Right Hand of the Divine “Princess Pentaghast,” one was sent home on a healer’s stretcher.

“Another Magister,” she said.

“Okay,” he sighed, “I’ll only say this once: I am a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium. I know Southerners use the terms interchangeably,” he conjured up his I-can-play-the-Game-too smile, “but that only makes you sound like barbarians.”

Shocked outrage raced across her face. She opened her mouth to protest, but the dwarf cut in. “Careful, Sparkler, the Seeker is well-read, in addition to deadly.”

She blushed and looked away.

“Hey!” All eyes turned to the elder Trevelyan. “ _He_ gets a nickname and I don’t?”

“You’re a tough nug to tackle, Leo. I’ll keep thinking on it before I give you an autographed copy of Tale of the Champion.”

“Well. Oh, okay. Thanks, Varric,” he mumbled.

Dorian grabbed the opportunity to regain control of the conversation. “Master Tethras, I, too, have read your Tale of the Champion, and have questions about the final Orsino chapter.”

“Really? Perhaps some other time.” Varric’s steely tone clearly indicated that the conversation would never take place.

Unfazed, Dorian turned to the elf mage. “And Solas, though I cannot claim to have heard of your exploits”—Varric sniggered—“I look forward to working with you in this endeavor.”

Solas raised an eyebrow and did not answer. At least he was no longer scowling.

One of the side doors creaked open just enough for Felix to slip through. He looked more haggard than he had at their pre-breakfast meeting. All the skulking around he did for Dorian seemed to exacerbate his illness.

Dorian’s smile faltered for a brief moment before he willed it back to brightness, ignoring the pang of guilt that tried to strangle him.

Everyone except Karl raised their weapons in Felix’s direction.

“It’s all right,” Dorian said. “Lord Trevelyan and company, may I introduce Felix of House Alexius, the man who braved death and worse at the Venatori’s hands to give you a fighting chance.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Dorian.” Felix’s strained smile emphasized his sickly pallor and gaunt cheeks.

“Venatori?” Solas mumbled, furiously rubbing the scowl line of his forehead with two fingers.

“Alexius, as in Gereon Alexius?” Karl asked, removing his glove and offering Felix a handshake.

The Seeker flinched, starting forward to intervene, and then holding herself back.

Felix blinked in surprise at the offer, but then firmly shook Karl’s hand. “How do you do, Lord Trevelyan?”

“Better now that I’ve met you. Would you like to sit?” he gestured toward a pew bench and the two men sat on the ends of pews, facing each other across the chantry aisle.

The Seeker was clearly at a loss, unable to decide whether to glower at the Tevinter, or step back and let the Herald hold court. Her face scrunched like she’d found a particularly sour grape, but she sheathed her weapon. Varric sat on a bench a few rows up with a clear view of everyone, pulled a silver flask from his belt and offered the flask to Leo, who shook his head and remained standing at Varric’s side, vigilant. The dwarf shrugged and took a pull himself. The elf mage, Solas, retreated quietly into the shadows.

Karl offered his waterskin to Felix, who politely declined, despite his dry, cracked lips, pink riddled with white lines.

Something sharp twisted in Dorian’s chest, and it had nothing to do with breathlessness from the recent demon battle. The bare handshake, the seat, the fresh water: all things you would offer a friend who had just fought by your side, not some Tevinter agent.

When Karl offered Dorian the waterskin, Dorian accepted, then passed it on to Cassandra, who drank herself. Finally, Karl drank himself and tied the waterskin back to his belt. Only then did it occur to Dorian that it was foolish to have accepted the drink before the others. It could have been a ruse to incapacitate or poison him.

He had put his full trust in a man he’d met less than five minutes earlier.

“Your father was hardly forthcoming at our meeting at the tavern,” Karl told Felix. “I appreciate your assistance there and here.”

“I will be blunt, my lord. He’s obsessed with you and your Mark. How you survived at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It equals his fervor for the Venatori.”

“And who are they?”

“Tevinter supremacists, only instead of raising an army to invade the South, they’re messing with time magic. Dorian is well-versed in the theory.”

Karl turned in his seat and raised an eyebrow in inquiry. The others in his party remained silent. That was a switch. People usually cried out in fear or outrage at the phrase “time magic.”

“When I was his apprentice, we never could get it to work, but the Breach is unraveling the fabric of the world, making time manipulation possible. Some rifts, like what we saw here, are caused by the Breach itself; others are opened by the Venatori to try to reach another time, but they can’t control them.”

“You mean you’ve _tried_ to alter time before, Sparkler?” Varric asked from his perch down the row. He crossed his arms and leaned back with an incredulous smile and shake of his head. “Let me revise my earlier assumption that you’re smart.”

“On the contrary, Master Tethras, I am highly intelligent and my specific knowledge of Gereon’s experiments is exactly what you need in your quest to defeat him.”

“More importantly,” Karl said, “You know him personally. Knowing a person’s powers doesn’t tell you how they’ll use them.”

“Very astute of you,” Dorian couldn’t keep the flirt out of his voice.

“I’m already convinced, Dorian. No need to butter me up.”

Now there was an image that had his throat dry and heart pounding. Oh, Karl hadn’t meant it like _that_ , he was sure, but it still was food for thought. What a cruel irony that after months of miserable running, and no libido at all, he meets this gorgeous, feisty, kind Marcher, when they all needed to focus on the Venatori and the Breach.

The door Felix had used may have squeaked, but the one opposite it did not when three more shadows slipped in. A human, an elf, and a dwarf, judging from the women’s builds, all in Inquisition uniforms. The taller two wore hoods. The human’s hood was a unique plum color draped as regally as a Revered Mother’s vestments; her sleek tunic’s leather-lined chainmail was as impressive as the Seeker’s armor. The elf and dwarf wore the greens and browns of Inquisition scouts.

The Seeker didn’t look their way, but her shoulders relaxed upon their arrival.

Karl nodded subtly to the newcomers and continued with the original conversation. “Let’s pay Gereon a house call.”

Cassandra sputtered. “Walk into the den of a Magister without reinforcements?”

“Didn’t you kill a dragon all by yourself, Seeker?” Varric asked.

“A dragon is less dangerous than a Magister,” Cassandra said.

Varric didn’t look convinced.

“No,” Karl said. “Without an army, but not without reinforcements. Our party goes in the front door with a parley. We distract the Magister. Felix can give us the guard rotations. Dorian opens a door or window to let our agents in.”

“There is another way in.” The human in the plum hood stepped from the shadows and Varric jumped up from his seat.

“Andraste’s flaming knickers, Nightingale!” The dwarf rubbed his face with his hand. “Sparkler, meet the Inquisition’s Spymaster, Sister Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine, and veteran of the Fifth Blight. I’m sure she already knows more about you than you know about you.”

That was disconcerting. “How do you do, Seneschal Leliana?”

She barely spared Dorian an unimpressed blink. So much for his wild reputation.

“There is a secret passage,” she said. “An escape route for the family. It runs from the village, under the lake to the dungeons.”

“I can clear magical wards in the lower levels for you,” Dorian said. “Felix can distract everyone above.”

“Good,” Karl said. “Once the trap is sprung, I’d like you to join me, Dorian. I’ll need your knowledge of the Magister.”

“Of course.”

“Leliana?” Karl asked.

“Scout Ava has collected every available agent in the area. A few dozen, more than sufficient for a surprise attack. The camps are still well-guarded.” The silent elf stepped forward, forehead shadowed by her hood, brown cheeks almost as dark and smooth as Karl’s.

“And Scout Harding knows this village better than even Arl Teagan. I ask that she remain with you, Herald. If the rest of us fall, Harding can lead you to safety.”

The dwarf stepped forward. Her auburn hair was wrapped up in a long braid on top of her head. She had endearing freckles, and a deadly bow held casually at her side. The bow was strung.

“I hope that’s not for me, my dear,” Dorian nodded toward the bow and she smiled, green eyes twinkling merrily in the candlelight. Yet he did not doubt she could put his eye out before he even reached for his staff. He remembered her from yesterday’s Templar skirmish. She’d been as stoic about her mage kills as her Templar kills.

Wait. _This_ was the Scout Harding Karl’s brother had insisted wouldn’t want to sweep him off his feet? She certainly appeared strong enough, but she also looked to be only about half his height. No wonder Karl had laughed. Still, Dorian wouldn’t mind seeing Karl’s grumpy older brother picked bodily up by the lovely dwarf woman.

“I’m not leaving without you,” Karl told Leliana.

“I know you will do the right thing,” she answered.

“I will.” His reply did not clarify whether the right thing might be refusing to leave. If Karl did stay, Dorian supposed he’d have to go down in a blaze of foolish glory along with him. No bard would know of his contributions, of course. No one would sing the praises of Dorian Pavus.

While Karl and the three scouts discussed last-minute strategy, Dorian moved to sit by Felix.

“How did it go?” he murmured. He knew better than to ask “How do you feel?” even if they weren’t in front of people who might consider Felix a liability if they discovered the origin of Felix’s unhealthy pallor. Especially that spymaster. If she was a Blight veteran, she’d be quick to swing the supposed sword of mercy.

“To get close enough to pass the note, I had to pretend to be faint. Shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought Father would be fussing over me all day. I was almost late to this meeting.

“He’s increasingly desperate, Dorian. His paranoia . . .” Felix looked up, the skin around his eyes tight with resolve. “We might not be able to save him.”

It was an old argument, without much heat.

“I want to try,” Dorian said, helping Felix to his feet with a hand at his elbow in a move so subtle none should notice.

Dorian raised his voice back to normal volume. “So, the plan is settled, then?”

“Yes,” Karl said. “Scout Harding will accompany my party in the front while you help the infiltrators and Lord Alexius distracts his father and the Venatori.”

It was a great kindness, acknowledging Felix’s title with a fellow noble’s full respect in front of the group. Dorian would not forget it.

Before he could get syrupy, Dorian tried to make light of their farewells. “And, Felix, try not to get yourself killed.”

“There are worse things than dying, Dorian.”

Leliana looked to Felix with something that might have been compassion, but no one commented on Felix’s bleak pronouncement.

The Seeker, Varric, and Solas went out the front, while Felix and the others slipped out the two shadow-filled side entrances.

Dorian and the Trevelyan brothers were nearly to the front door when Leo paused and asked gruffly, “Karl, a word?”

Karl’s frown was confused. “Sure. Dorian, will you wait a sec for me?”

“Of course.”

Karl held up an index finger. “Be right back.”

The brothers retreated to the far corner of the chantry, but their whispers carried to Dorian, as he pointedly watched the entrance, pretending not to listen.

“Seriously, Karl, since when do _you_ fall for a pretty face?” Leo hissed.

“What makes you think—oh, because I winked at him. Leo, the guy’s a complete stranger—actually,” his tone turned husky, “Now that you mention it, it’s not just his face that’s pretty.”

Leo made a strangled sound of frustration.

“Hey, I was joking—I mean, not about Dorian being attractive, but that . . .” he sighed. “Leo, we need help and he helped us. I don’t think he’s going to hurt us.”

“He could hurt you.”

“Why?” Karl’s voice took on a false lightness even Dorian, a practical stranger, could identify. “Because he’s witty, and smart, and talented?” His voice wavered, “He doesn’t have freckles, though, so I’m sure I can resist his quick wit and devilish charm.”

There was a rustle of leather armors and Dorian chanced a look their way. The brothers hugged as if the crumbling world was on fire, which might indeed be a fate they saw before day’s end.

“You’re the best man this world has to offer, Leo. You’re going to have to come to terms with that before you become Bann.”

“Karl—”

“Let’s not argue about that now. We have slaves to free.”

Karl approached the door and gestured for Dorian to go first. “Shall we?”

“Of course, my lord.” With a flourish, Dorian opened the door and bowed him through.

Karl laughed. “It’s just Karl, Dorian.”

As if this man were “just” a mere anything.


	7. The Day the World Died (Redcliffe Castle)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content includes battle violence and gore.
> 
> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, SnuggleBonnet and [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata).
> 
>  

They trekked up the hill toward the ruined windmill, where Dorian was to accompany the Spymaster’s agents through the secret passageway.

“Dorian, does Felix have blight sickness?” Karl kept his eyes forward and his voice down, but Dorian had no trouble hearing him, or the heartfelt concern that ran through every word.

There was no point in trying to cover it up. “Felix’s caravan was caught in a darkspawn ambush several months ago. His mother was killed and Gereon blames himself, for not being there to save them both. That’s why he’s gone off on this fool adventure with a supremacist cult. He says they can help him find a cure. Utter nonsense, of course. The only ‘cure’ is to become a Grey Warden, and that’s not a cure; it’s a death sentence.”

Karl glanced at him. “How does becoming a Grey Warden help?”

“I am not certain. The Joining is a secret ritual, guarded more fiercely than the Wardens’ Weisshaupt Fortress, but there are lingering clues in literature that lead me to believe it’s similar to Tevinter Magisters’ less stellar practices.”

“Blood magic,” Karl grunted, looking forward again.

“That does not necessarily mean the Grey Wardens practice human sacrifice.” At the stiffening of Karl’s shoulders, Dorian quickly amended, “Or, I should say, the sacrifice of any person, dwarf, elf, or otherwise.” He wasn’t sure if he should include Qunari in that list, considering he didn’t know Karl’s views on the people, and the Qun’s attacks on Tevinter didn’t make Dorian inclined to speak up for them without testing the waters first.

“I actually think most magic is blood magic.”

Queasiness sloshed in Dorian’s stomach. “You equate magic with ritual sacrifice?” Was this the infamous man who harbored apostates? Had he saved them, or done something more sinister?

“Oh, no,” Karl snorted his amusement. “That’s not what I meant at all. I don’t believe in killing people for a spell. I think your mage talents run through your blood and veins, not just your spirit. I think we _all_ have the gift of a little magic in our blood, even dwarves. So, when I said magic is blood magic, I meant the term ‘blood magic’ is a misnomer.”

“An interesting concept,” Dorian said, intrigued. “If such a belief became widespread, I can see your Chantry calling for another Exalted March to extinguish it.”

Karl shuddered. “Yeah, it’s probably a greater heresy than to claim to be the Herald of Andraste. If everyone has magic, then there’s no reason to keep mages locked up now, is there? Or for village folk to bow in subservience to Templars. I imagine you’d have a similar outcry in your homeland, if for different reasons.”

Dorian nearly tripped as the idea hit home. “Well,” he said with false brightness, “If the Soporati _all_ suddenly considered themselves mages, we’d have more than an uprising on our hands. The Laetans gladly invite and uplift the occasional Soporati into their midst, but there wouldn’t be room for everyone at the table.”

“Hmm, Soporati are the non-magic folk, right? Laetans are lower-class mages . . .”

Dorian didn’t like where this was headed.

“And I’ve heard of House Pavus: the family’s upper-class, making you an Altus.”

“Yes,” Dorian answered stiffly. “A noble such as yourself.”

Karl laughed. “Dorian, I am nowhere near the height of noble you are.” He continued pensively, “Pavus is a big name. Your father is a member of the Magisterium. How does he feel about what you’re doing here?”

Indeed, what would Magister Halward Pavus think of such a conversation with a handsome young Marcher with no native magic of his own?

Thank the Maker they’d arrived at the windmill. Sister Leliana’s stern look was exactly what he needed to stop this topic of conversation.

Dorian bowed. “I am afraid this is where we must temporarily part company, Lord Trevelyan, to keep the element of surprise, but I promise to be present at the right moment.”

Karl grinned. “Oh, I trust you to make a grand entrance, Dorian. I’m looking forward to it.”

Dorian was usually immune to praise, but from Karl, it dazzled him, and Dorian followed Leliana down through the hidden trapdoor with his mind spinning and ears buzzing.

-

Ava had their horses waiting for them at the windmill. Lace hugged her and kissed her cheek. “Be careful,” she whispered.

“You, too.” The elf followed the infiltration party and closed the trap door behind her. Leo helped Lace cover the door with dried grasses and twigs—not too heavy, so the door could still be an escape route—and then they were on their way.

In theory, it was the Herald who led them up the long, steep hill toward the castle, but it was  Lace at his side who knew the lay of the land and remained an unobtrusive half-step ahead to show Karl the safest route. He didn’t mind at all, and for that, she was grateful.

Humans, noble or not, were usually surly about being led. Even if it was they who had demanded her help in the first place. She’d been delighted when Corporal Vale offered her a position with the Inquisition’s scouts, pleasantly surprised that everyone treated her, Ritts, and Ava with the same respect they showed the human scouts, and shocked when, after one mere week, the Spymaster herself had sent a letter-by-bird offering Lace the lead scout position in the Hinterlands.

Her current position still made her giddy sometimes. Before the Breach, she’d been a shepherd for her neighbor’s sheep, occasionally taking travelers’ coin to be their guide, or helping the Dennet family during foaling season. She’d declined Bron’s offer to help with the druffalo birthing calves; she was a dwarf, after all, and druffalo kick harder than horses.

Once the Inquisition had closed the Breach and left the Hinterlands, Lace would return to her normal life with enough adventure stories to keep the local kids enthralled for years. It was a happy thought that made the path ahead a little less daunting. Still, she wouldn’t let her guard down until she got the Herald’s party safely back to camp.

When they’d left the Windmill, Karl had smiled brightly and thanked her for her assistance. She was certain he could have managed on his own. It was the rest of his party that she’d need to watch.

Karl had easily led them through the wilderness to the disastrous parley in Witchwood and brought them safely home to camp. Solas was a wandering apostate, Cassandra versed in all forms of travel and battlefield. Only Leo appeared less comfortable than city-rogue Varric about cutting cross-country.

Not that they were in the wilderness now. The long, hard-packed dirt road up to Redcliffe Castle was wide and well-worn, bordered by a shoulder-high (for Lace) stone wall at occasional spots where the drop-off was precarious on their right. Yet Leo and Varric were jumpy about harmless small rustles in the underbrush to their left, and oblivious to the snuffling of a predator in a dense tree stand they passed—Cassandra had put her hand on her pommel and dropped to the back of their party, while Karl raised his commanding voice in their casual conversation, a classic deterrent for wolves and other creatures nervous around humans and dwarves. The horses’ ears twitched, but none spooked.

Everyone in the Herald’s party rode competently, and none let themselves become dehydrated. It would be a relatively easy guide assignment—until they faced the Magister and his mages. Dwarves were resistant to magic, but fire still burned, ice still froze, and the elf and humans of their party were susceptible to any number of other spells. Magic or no magic, anyone could be felled by sword or arrow, boiling oil, or sheer numbers. Lace hoped Leliana led enough backup.

The Herald was thinking along the same lines. “What do you think of this plan, Scout Harding?”

“It’s the best we can do, Ser, with the best agents the Hinterlands has to offer. Our success is more likely than failure. I would not have agreed to it otherwise.”

Karl smiled. “That’s a relief. I’d worried I’d dragged you all of on some foolish idealistic crusade, doomed to failure.”

“Idealistic, perhaps, but not foolish. You don’t needlessly risk our people. And we don’t have our backs to the wall—yet.”

He sighed. “Yes, ‘yet.’ Some nastiness is certain to be involved. I wish I could go into this meeting with Dorian’s flair. After three years of warring with the Templars, it’s refreshing to meet a confident mage again.”

“Warring with the Templars, Ser?” Perhaps he wasn’t as clearsighted as she’d thought. That would make it harder to watch his back.

He grunted with frustration. “Why does everybody assume I’m blind? Yes, Lace, I realize mages are warring, too, and I’ve killed more mages than anyone ever should, but I’m not going to pretend they’re equally at fault here.”

She did not reply. Best to let his feelings run their course before they walked into the Magister’s lair.

Their horses plodded up the hill. Behind them, Varric told Leo about the Kirkwall Guard Captain’s first disastrous date with her second husband. Solas and Cassandra brought up the rear in silence, too far back to hear what they were talking about up front.

“Sorry,” Karl said shortly. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Your inquiry was warranted. I trust Magister Alexius as much as I do a prodded snake. It’s Ferelden’s mages and Redcliffe Village that I want to save. Let everyone call me an uppity, interfering Marcher. I don’t give a damn.”

“Well, you uppity, interfering Marcher,” she deadpanned, “I approve.”

He laughed, loud and rich, and his horse, Ace, happily whinnied in reply. “Even if you weren’t the most talented guide in the Hinterlands, I’d keep you around. Between you and Varric, maybe my brother will forget to mope. He’s convinced I’m going to die horribly at any moment.”

Lace looked back. Leo was enraptured by Varric’s story, his lips curved up at the corners, ready for the storyteller’s next big reveal. It was much better than the despondent look he’d worn when they’d left camp this morning.

Leo’s smile fell and Lace looked forward.

They had reached the castle.

The portcullis closed behind them. Stablehands rushed forward to take their mounts, bringing a box for Lace to dismount. Despite her rising nervousness about Alexius, she wondered why the Arl’s residence was so well prepared to meet a traveler of her stature.

Karl offered her a hand down from the box, like she was a lady, and she gracefully accepted. “Would you stick close to Leo?” he asked, voice low. “He’s good with his blades, and can hold court as well as a king, but he’s never encountered anything like this before.”

“Of course, Ser.” She removed her unstrung bow and full quiver from the straps along her horse’s side. Her knives had never left her belt and boot.

“Thanks,” he gave a relieved breath.

The others dismounted and gathered close for last-minute instructions.

“I don’t know if truth, lies, or a mix of the two will distract the Magister,” Karl said. “I’m willing to say just about anything to get him to let slip intelligence about the Venatori. Let Felix and me do all the talking. I’d like to avoid drawing weapons, at least until Leliana’s done her part, but we must be ready.” He looked down at Lace’s bow. She quickly strung it and he nodded his approval. “Ready, but still willing to parley.

“These mages are used to ruling. They won’t hold back. Cassandra . . . I—I know this is a little late, but would you have preferred to have some Templars with you?”

“My Seeker talents should be more than sufficient for this meeting, Herald. After all,” a bit of humor slipped past her usually stern lips as she echoed Varric’s earlier comment, “I once defeated a dragon.”

Leo nodded. “We are ready, Karl. Do what you need to.”

Karl went in front, flanked by Cassandra and Leo. Just behind them, Lace and Varric walked on either side of Solas.

They climbed the stone steps. The giant wood doors silently swung open before them, and closed just as quietly, without any person’s hand. The guards inside wore hooded white Tevinter coats with tails, and silver masks with dual, flat protrusions from the top, unlike any horns Lace had ever seen. They appeared unarmed, which just meant they were mages powerful enough to not need a staff.

The Seeker could probably handle two without breaking a sweat, but if the next room was filled with them . . . Lace took two steps forward to be nearer to Leo. Varric raised an eyebrow in inquiry, and she shook her head, willing him to hold his tongue. She needn’t have worried; Varric was as good at the “quietly menacing” plan as the rest of their group.

Alexius’ bland, blond Steward didn’t bother with pleasantries. “The invitation was for Lord Trevelyan alone. The others shall wait here.”

“Where I go, they go.”

The Steward tilted his head and glared. Karl mirrored his look. The Steward shrugged and led them forward, up yet another long stone stairwell to the throne room. If he gave up so easily, the next room must be heavily guarded. Lace’s heartbeat quickened.

The throne room doors thudded closed behind them. A half-dozen heavy stone columns lined the room on both sides, every column flanked by two masked mage guards. In a space this size, twenty-four to six were terrible odds, even with the Seeker at their back. Twenty-six, if you counted the Magister and his son.

Unless Felix was willing to fight his father with more than words.

The lighting was better here than in the little chantry. Felix looked like a bloodless, three-day corpse come to life. No, even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to do much.

For anyone else, so many guards would seem paranoid. For Alexius, it felt . . . calculating. Whatever he planned required a lot of mana. Lace hated not knowing what he had up his sleeve, but not even Ava could have gotten this close before now without getting caught.

“Ah, welcome, my friend,” Alexius rose from the Arl’s throne and stood at the top of the dais.

Smug bastard.

Felix stood in attendance at his side.

“And to your associates, as well.” Alexius’ smarmy comment was worse than disdain. His eyes perused them all like cheap brass trinkets that sullied a pearl merchant’s table. He didn’t even blink at her strung bow. “Please forgive Fiona’s absence. She is tending to my charges.”

“Straight to business, then?” Karl said. “Very well. At the tavern, you offered aid to close the Breach. I’m still unclear on why and how Ferelden’s mages need you to barter for them. When, exactly, did the free mages become Tevinter’s property?”

So much for stalling with diplomacy. Lace relaxed her shoulders, ready to reach for her quiver.

Alexius didn’t seem offended in the slightest. “Your Templars had them cornered, ready for slaughter. Lucky for them I arrived when I did.”

“Yes, your _timing_ was very fortuitous.”

Alexius’ oily smile faltered. “Whatever do you mean, my friend?”

Silent shadows moved behind the guards. Dorian’s plan to clear out the lower levels must have worked.

Felix stepped forward, announcing loudly, “The Herald knows everything, Father.”

“Felix, what have you done?”

“The Venatori’s plan is worse than a Blight, Father! We don’t belong here. The Fereldans don’t belong in Minrathous. Don’t squander what little time we have left together.”

“No! I have to undo the mistake at the Temple. It's the only way, Felix. He can save you!”

“Save me?” Felix’s face contorted in disgust, like he’d just been invited to jump into a manure pit.

“Who?!” Karl demanded. “Who attacked the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

Lace’s fingers tingled, itching to pull an arrow from her quiver.

“They are summoning mana!” Solas warned.

The Magister shook with rage, pointed a finger at Karl. “Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands this man's life!”

Up and down the both side of the room, Venatori guards fell with gurgles and screams, simultaneously stabbed, or with their throats slit by Inquisition agents. Two burst into grotesque pieces, thanks to an ice spell from Dorian. Leliana snapped the neck of the man on the end, and shoved him away. His mask shattered when he hit the stone floor.

“No! No!” The Magister yelled. “You may have stolen my apprentice, but you will not have my son!”

Lace was drawing an arrow before she fully registered what movement had prompted her action: An Enchanter springing out from behind the throne.

“Behind . . . !” Before Solas could finish his warning, her arrow hit the twenty-seventh Tevinter mage in the eye, flinging him backward off the dais. He vanished from view, and his skull hit the floor with a squelching crack.

“You,” Alexius hissed at Karl. “You’re nothing but a mistake.”

The Magister pulled something from his pocket and flung it in the air.

“NO!” Dorian leapt forward, swinging his staff as a rift—a _black_ rift, created by Alexius, swallowed the Herald.

Lace blinked. Karl and Dorian were gone, as was the rift, without the usual hissing crack.

“That wasn’t right!” Alexius shook his fist. “Why wasn’t it right?!”

Dozens of armored boots sounded in the hall, rushing toward them. All the Venatori soldiers from the upper levels stormed toward the throne room. They were sure to have Enchanters in their ranks. Blood mages.

Panic welled up in Lace’s chest.

Leliana ran to Cassandra’s side, eyes wide with horror, looking at the empty space where Karl and Dorian had stood a moment before.

“Fuck,” Varric said.

“KARL!” Leo’s anguished yell shook Lace more than the Herald’s disappearance. With a scream, Leo lashed out a grappling hook toward the Magister, catching him in the shoulder, just as the mage brought up a purple barrier. Leo flew toward him, only to bounce off the barrier and careen back against a pillar, hitting his head and sliding to the floor.

Lace ran to his side, yanking her glove off and checking for a pulse. Strong enough. And he was breathing. She ran her hand along his scalp, his rough little hairs scraping her skin as she checked for cracks. She couldn’t feel any, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. He needed a healer. Fast.

Alexius grunted in pain, hunched over, gripping his shoulder, which bled profusely.

Venatori swarmed through the doors. Solas threw a barrier over the Inquisition agents directly in their path, but it was quickly dispelled by an enormous Enchanter in a red mask—human, but he had to be over seven feet tall. The scouts were quickly cut down.

With an angry shriek, Ava lunged forward in a blue flash of light, passing her own body straight through the giant Enchanter’s chest and out his back with her daggers held forward like a lance. She stuck one of her daggers in the ear of an archer and left it there when he fell, kicked the bow across the floor to Leliana, and rolled to swipe the sword from the fallen Enchanter’s belt. Orange flames ran down her blades, one long, one short. She shouldered through the door, somehow knocking three grown human men down the steps with her.

“Solas!” Ava shouted. “Door barrier!”

With a sweep of his arm, Solas erected a purple barrier that perfectly fit the rectangular entrance to the throne room.

The sounds of clashing swords and magic swept in from the main hall, with the occasional flash of lighting visible through Solas’ barrier.

“May the Dread Wolf eat your hairy eyeballs, and the Lady bathe in your tears,” she sounded calm now—deadly calm—as her voice carried through the battle sounds and barrier, back into the throne room.

“Kill her!” Alexius screamed. “Kill that damned elf! Destroy her!”

An explosion rocked the castle. Rock and white smoke bounced from the outer room against the door barrier, which wavered, but held.

Silence rang in Lace’s ears. She held her breath for several anxious heartbeats. Was the Magister the only remaining threat?

No.

More armored boots ran their way. The Venatori must have an entire army hidden in the attic of Redcliffe Castle. This wasn’t a raiding party for slaves, or a squad intent on capturing the Herald of Andraste. This was an invasion.

Enchanters burst through the barrier, archers and swordsmen on their heels. They threw down glyphs and cast balls of fire toward the surviving Inquisition agents.

With a Rally cry, Cassandra leapt forward to shield bash an entire line of Venatori into a wall. She held one pinned with her shield and gestured with her sword arm to shatter the glyphs and knock the Enchanters to their knees.

But more came.

Blue flames ran down Cassandra’s sword. With a single stroke, she dispatched the soldier she had pinned to the wall and rushed forward to engage three swordsmen at once.

Leliana hit a Venatori across the throat with her stolen bow. The bow didn’t break. “Lace, catch and fire!”

Knock, draw, release. From where she knelt at Leo’s side, Lace fired an arrow straight at Leliana’s head. Spinning in a circle, the Spymaster caught it and fired it through the door into charging troops. Lace’s shot immediately followed. Both hit home. They did it again and again, until Lace’s quiver was empty. “I’m out!”

They dropped their bows and pulled their blades.

Mages tried to blast Lace with spells, which passed over her skin like a strong wind before a thunderstorm. They mussed her hair, but did not harm her.

Shieldless, Leliana fought at Cassandra’s side. Solas and Varric fought back-to-back, both panting from exertion. The hue of each of Solas’ barriers and ice spells grew dimmer and dimmer.

“I’m out!” Varric shouted, throwing his last pouch of spike traps to Leliana. He strapped Bianca to his back and pulled his belt dagger, crouching by Solas, ready for anyone who got too close.

Three swordsmen got past the Spymaster and Seeker. Solas smashed one in the face with his staff, Varric gutted the second, and Lace felled the third with fisted blades across his thighs, severing the arteries. His short, bloodcurdling scream rent her soul, but she did not waver in her stance over Leo’s unconscious form.

The bleeding Magister had staggered to his knees. One of his Enchanters rushed to his side with healing and rejuvenation spells and helped him to his feet. The healer handed him a health potion, which Alexius downed in one gulp. Then the healer reached out with a hand and _absorbed_ into himself the blood of one of his fallen comrades.

Bile rose in Lace’s throat, but she refused to vomit.

Cassandra Silenced the mage in front of her, just as a warrior to her right hit her in the head with his pommel. She fell to the ground, unmoving. Leliana stuck her daggers in the warrior’s throat and he went down with a gurgle, spraying her with a fountain of blood as she yanked her weapons back. Two mages caught the Spymaster in a static cage. Three more threw ice spikes at Solas. His answering barrier was pale, and one got through, piercing his shoulder and pinning him to a stone column. He weakly raised his hand, conjuring a dim fireball, but the nearest warrior kicked Varric out of the way and hit Solas in the head with a rock. The elf slumped. The dwarf flew across the floor on his side, coming to rest at the base of the dais, unmoving.

Leliana could not move or speak, but she glared daggers at the Magister.

Lace was the last agent standing, her bloodied blades dripping on the floor.

Her only remaining options were to die now, or cooperate, hoping a solution would present itself later. It was an easy decision: As long as another of her companions breathed, so would she. Lace tossed her daggers onto the floor near a Venatori soldier’s feet and he kicked them far out of reach.

She looked around the devastated throne room, painted in blood and gore. All twenty-two of her local agents dead, including Ava. Ritts was there. On the floor. Dead eyes open to the ceiling, hand clutching at the fingers of Conal’s corpse. Half his face was missing, but Lace knew it was him.

Anger blazed through her like a cold, white flame.

“Heal and bind him,” Alexius ordered, pointing at Solas. A mage pulled the ice spike from Solas’ shoulder, letting the elf flop to the floor, and bound up his shoulder with a spell. A warrior came forward and put an odd amulet around his neck before he tied him, wrists, and ankles.

“The Trevelyan bastard, too. I must know what they did at the Temple.”

Lace took a step back to stand by Leo’s feet while the disgusting blood mage healed Leo’s skull with a touch.

“Take the redhead to interrogate first, along with that bitch,” Alexius pointed to Lace. He’d been lofty before, then angry. Now, the curve of his lip was cruel.

“No, Father!” Felix sobbed, grabbing the Magister’s arm. “Please, stop this madness.”

His father brushed him off as easily as a fly and the younger man sat heavily on the floor. He looked to Lace, crying. “So many. I had no idea. I’m sorry I brought you here.”

“Not as sorry as your father’s going to be.”

Karl was gone. Dorian was gone.

Ava.

Yes, indeed, her anger was a cold, white flame. This might be the end of the world, but Lace Harding would not go quietly into the night.


	8. Ruin and Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, SnuggleBonnet and [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata).
> 
> Content includes a panic attack, battle violence, body horror (red lyrium), and a rescue from a torture chamber.

Magic ripped them from where they stood and they fell through the floor as if it were wind instead of stone. The rift in time was _black_ , not green, Dorian barely had time to notice, before landing hard on his feet in filthy, knee-high water, jarring his back. He fell down on all fours, still clutching his staff in his right hand. His knuckles smashed into the stone floor below the water.

Karl was in a similar position at his side, coughing in great gasps that shook Dorian’s body where their shoulders touched. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. The rogue had been even less prepared than Dorian for what had just happened. He was too disoriented to defend himself.

“Blood of the Elder One!” Two Venatori swordsmen ran in. “Where did they come from?”

There was no time for a barrier, or even to determine whether there was enough mana to conjure a spell. In one movement, Dorian leapt to his feet and forward, lashing out with his staff to block the warriors’ swords. The enchanted staff held like iron, and the Venatori fell back with curses, but remained upright.

It sounded like Karl sloshed to his feet behind him, still coughing.

Dorian raised a hand, expelled a fireball from his palm into the chest of the soldier on the left, who lit up like a dry torch. The Venatori screamed and ran for the door, only to be felled by a staff-flung ice spell to his back.

The second soldier’s eyes widened in shock when a dagger flew into his throat, knocking him flat into the water, dead.

Breathing heavily, Karl came forward to retrieve his blade. He wiped it dry on the shoulder of his jacket and sheathed it. “Leo can make eyeball shots, but I need something a little bigger. Right, Leo?” He turned to look behind them. “Leo?

“LEO?!” Karl spun in a circle. “Where are you?” He ran from corner to corner of the stone cell they’d fallen into, lifting his knees high against the water’s resistance, screaming his brother’s name.

As he ran past, Dorian caught him by the arm and dragged him close, clamping his other hand around the back of Karl’s neck, where his heartbeat stampeded like druffalo chased by demons. “Karl,” he kept his voice low, firm. “Karl. Karl, look at me.”

Karl struggled, his panicked breaths short and difficult. “Can’t—can’t!”

Dorian pulled him flush against his chest, squeezing both arms tight around Karl’s back. “Blow it all out.”

“Can’t—can’t.”

His hands clutched at the back of Dorian’s robe, straining the seams.

“You can.” Or he might hyperventilate and pass out, which would make their situation even more dangerous.

With a few hiccupping attempts, Karl blew air out through his mouth.

“Breathe in, deep, deep. Push my arms with your breath.”

Karl whimpered, but tried.

“Good. All the way out. All the way in.” They repeated this over and over for several long minutes, until Karl’s breaths deepened, slowed. His violent shakes became tired trembling.

Thank the Maker more Venatori hadn’t been near, or they’d have been dead.

“Thank you,” Karl whispered against Dorian’s shoulder. His despondent gratitude made Dorian’s heart crack.

He eased back to hold Karl’s elbows and look at him. “Here,” he pulled a flask from his belt pouch and uncorked it. “You need a rejuvenating potion.”

“I—” Karl blinked sleepily. “Okay.” He took it carefully with both hands and sipped.

Dorian waited patiently, ears open for anyone approaching, while Karl took tiny sips between shaky breaths.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Karl said, handing the flask back for Dorian to cork and put back in his pouch. “I asked Lace to watch his back.”

“Scout Harding? The lovely dwarf woman who can put your eye out at two-hundred paces and Varric wants to sweep Leo off his feet?”

Karl tried to smile and failed. “You heard that? You spying on me?” he teased.

“I was waiting for you,” Dorian said softly. He hadn’t known how dire the consequences of his plan would be.

Karl looked around. “Where _are_ we? What’s with all the fucking dungeons in Ferelden?”

“It’s not just where. It’s when.”

“Fuck.”

“Precisely.”

“But we didn’t just move through time,” Karl said. “We’re _below_ the castle proper. How do we get back?”

“I need to be _at_ and _in_ a certain moment of time with Gereon. More accurately, I need the two of us, his amulet, and the Redcliffe throne room all together at once to try to work the same spell backward. I’m assuming he’ll have the amulet on him; therefore, he will likely be present, and . . . resist.”

“Yeah,” Karl grunted, eyeing the blood on his sleeve. “Let’s search the cellblock for allies. Maybe we can sneak upstairs without further noise. I’m . . . sorry, Dorian. I’ve never panicked like that before.”

“You’ve never time traveled before. It’s understandable.”

“But I can’t fall apart when so much is at stake. We have to figure out _when_ we are and how to stop Alexius’ Venatori cult. I’m going to have to kill him, Dorian. You know that, right?”

“I understand.” He did understand, but he still railed against the thought. Gereon had taken him in, molded his young mind, with such kind fervor when his own parents had failed him. The Alexius family had been Dorian’s first safe harbor, and then he’d lost them to illness and fanaticism. Without them, his only friend was Maevaris, off fighting her own battles in Minrathous.

He wasn’t a good, selfless man like Felix. Felix loved his father more than anyone else in Thedas; yet it was Felix who had suggested they might have to kill him. However much it hurt, he had to try to do what Felix would want.

“I understand,” he said again. “Shall we start our investigation with the next room over?”

None of his wildest imaginings had hinted at what they found there. Grand Enchanter Fiona was alone, locked in one of the cages, impaled shoulder-to-toe by a pillar of red lyrium that pinned her to the floor. The wide base completely encased her lower half in glowing red rock.

This was to be one of his new nightmares on restless nights.

“Herald.” Her Orlesian voice was a weak echo of her once-confident self. “How?”

“Time magic. The Magister miscalculated. I’m sure he didn’t want me to survive.”

Her pained expression did not change. All her energy went into her haggard breathing around the spike of red lyrium.

“What is the date?” Dorian asked. “It’s very important.” He hoped she could answer before she expired. “If I find the amulet that sent us here, I can maybe get us back to the appropriate moment.”

“Good,” she rasped out.

“I said, maybe. It might also turn us into paste.”

“You must.” She winced. “Harvestmere. Nine-forty-two, Dragon.”

“Nine-forty-two. We’ve missed an entire year!”

A year complicated things. Hours were nothing, days fairly easy. But longer than a month, the fabric of time would be thin and fragile. Dorian had once theorized it had something to do with mortals’ memories having a physical impact on their environment, just as mana and the Fade do. As memories faded, paled, or became corrupted by time, so did their hold on a particular _place_ in time. Gereon had been so hostile to the idea, Dorian hadn’t even pursued it in secret, content to drown himself in their other studies.

Now it might be the only thing that could save them. Everyone else in the world was distantly removed from his desired place in time, but he and Karl had been there less than a day ago. He hoped it would be enough power to get them there, and that whatever horrifying shocks they found here didn’t irreparably corrupt their memories of the time rift in the Redcliffe throne room.

“A year is all it took.” Fiona hitched a watery breath. “The Elder One killed Celene, marched an army of demons and Red Templars across Thedas. My sons perished.”

“Red Templars?” Karl asked sharply.

“He gave Templars blight-infected lyrium. I think most did not know until they were his thralls. I don’t know how he summoned the demons—thousands of demons.”

“Is that what this is, blight-infected lyrium?” Karl nodded toward the spike protruding from her body.

It took three wheezing tries for her to answer. “Yes.”

Dorian reined back his panic. The blighted stuff was everywhere, protruding from the floors, walls, and ceilings. How would it affect the rift if he managed to open it again? What if Karl came down with blight sickness and carried it back with him? There was no cure. Dorian was expendable. Karl was not.

“Could the Grey Wardens defeat it?” Karl asked.

“The only Grey Warden to challenge the Elder One was King Alistair.” Her lips trembled up into a sad smile. “He was beautiful. Now he is dead.”

With a gasp of pain, her shoulders slumped, but her red lyrium prison kept her upright. They were going to lose her soon.

“The Elder One is a title,” Dorian said. “Any idea what his name might be?”

“A Tevinter.”

Yes, he’d gathered that much from Gereon’s ravings, but knowing the villain who’d all but destroyed the world was from his homeland didn’t do much to narrow the list of suspects.

“Fiona,” Karl spoke clearly and rested his hand on the cross section of her cell’s bars, “What can we do for you?”

“Go back. Warn the Chantry. They must help, or they will lose more than their Templars and an empress.”

“She’s right, you know,” Dorian said. “Val Royeaux’s Mothers may not be able to close the Breach—likely only you can do that—but their support could be essential to stopping the one who made it. The one who gave us this terrible future.”

Karl raised his brown eyes to look at him and Dorian’s heart skipped a beat. The Herald beseeched him with those eyes. His hopeful trust pinned Dorian to the floor, just as effectively as the lyrium held Fiona. He’d not thought anyone would ever look at him like that. A wave of desperation slammed into his chest and nearly felled him to his knees in front of Fiona’s heinous cage. Yes, he was talented—even more talented than Gereon and Felix—but there was no precedence or formula for this. He might not be worthy of that look.

It was all a moot point if they couldn’t find that bloody amulet and gain entrance to the throne room, or whatever that space might be now. A crater, for all they knew. It didn’t matter what condition the place was in. Just as long as they were in exactly the right place, he could pair it with the amulet and set the time.

“I will go, Fiona,” Karl said, but it was Dorian he watched while he said it.

With a final rattle of watery breath, Fiona’s head and arms slumped toward the floor.

With a mournful sigh, Karl reached for the lock of her cell.

Heart hammering, Dorian shot a hand out onto his shoulder to stop him. “Karl, please. She said red lyrium is an infection. Tending to her body could very well infect you. Time is still moving. We must hasten along ourselves and get you back to when you need to be, healthy and whole.”

Karl stared at Fiona’s body. “How can I be whole after this, Dorian?”

“I do not know. Maybe it’s not possible.” He knew he should remove his hand from Karl’s shoulder, but he feared he’d never have the chance to touch him again.

“Both of us, Dorian.” Karl reached up and squeezed his hand with much more familiarity than was customary with someone you’d met mere hours before. “We need to get you back healthy and whole, too.”

For once in his life, Dorian didn’t have a witticism to throw out in return.

Karl let his hand slowly slip away, back down to his side and Dorian released him. For a brief moment he felt unanchored, drifting toward rocky shores.

“Come on,” Karl stepped back from the bars. “If Fiona lasted this long, there will be others. I hope they’re well enough to help us fight our way out of here.”

Down another hall lined with tainted lyrium spikes, they found Karl’s brother.

“Leo!” Karl sobbed. He raced to the cell and fell to his knees, reaching through the bars toward the still form on the floor. Red Lyrium hung from the ceiling, but no spikes jut out from his body.

Leo rolled toward him, groaning as he crawled forward to hug him through the bars. A red glow reverberated around Leo’s body in a poisonous aura, but Dorian didn’t intervene. If he’d found Felix in the same position, he would not have been able to resist either, blighted lyrium sickness be damned.

Karl reached down for the waterskin on his belt, put a few droplets on his fingers to drip them between Leo’s parched, cracked lips.

“Thanks,” Leo croaked out. “Haven’t had anything for a few days. I heard Fiona sobbing about her son the other day, but it’s been lonely silence for a while now.”

“The Grand Enchanter had a son?” Dorian asked. He hadn’t paid her passing comment much mind earlier, focused on more pressing matters. “I thought Southern mages weren’t allowed to fraternize.”

“Sons,” Leo said. “More than one. I don’t know if she was referring to her fellow Circle mages, or if she really did have a baby or two at some point.”

Karl reached over to pick the cell’s lock. “The Chantry would have taken them at birth, of course, stuck them in an orphanage until they could be molded into Templars or locked up in Circles.”

Dorian wrinkled his nose in distaste. “From what I’ve seen of your Southern Templars, that’s a vicious thing.”

“You don’t have Templars in the Imperium?” Leo asked.

“Oh, we have them, but they serve the Magisterium as much as the Chantry, and they certainly do not take lyrium or lock away mage children! I can’t imagine the Black Divine would tolerate such a thing. ‘ _A magic child is a gift_ ’ was his campaign motto. Our interpretation of ‘Magic should serve Man, not rule over him,’ differs greatly from yours.”

“Do you really call him the Black Divine?” Karl asked.

“No, but I’ve heard how you barbarians differentiate our Divine from the women you elect to sit on the Sunburst throne.”

“Our Chantry’s excuse is ‘Andraste was a woman,’” Karl said. “Yours?”

“‘It’s always been that way.’ Excellent reasoning.” Dorian lay the sarcasm on extra thick.

Karl shook his head. “Come on, Leo.” The rusted cell door swung open with a screech and the younger Trevelyan helped the elder to his feet. “We find Alexius’ amulet, take it back to the throne room, and Dorian will get the two of us back to when he and I left. We’ll prevent this all from happening.”

Leo shot Dorian a skeptical look and followed his brother out. It was better than some other receptions Dorian had received.

They climbed stone stairs and passed through a room full of discarded Ventatori propaganda, including bent armor, water damaged books, and blood-spattered tapestries.

“I almost miss the tacky dog paintings the Arl had in here,” Dorian said. Karl hummed his agreement, but Leo remained his silent shadow.

Karl led them across the hall and through a door to a steel walkway over an underground lake. “Which way?” he asked Leo.

“Straight ahead are more cells.” He pointed to the right. “Up there are the interrogation chambers—and the way out.”

Karl strode forward. “Let’s see who else can be saved.”

Leo’s humorless chuckle echoed harshly off the stone walls. “We all know I’m dead, even if we get out of here.”

The cruel, heavy truth of the statement lodged itself in Dorian’s gut.

Karl did not reply.

They found Varric and the Seeker in similar red-lyrium-lined cells, Varric still sane but idly humming some tuneless melody, Lady Cassandra reciting the South’s version of the Chant of Light with pious precision. They had a sickness similar to Leo’s, but retained more physical energy. Both were quick to get up and follow Karl out of the dungeon.

Like Leo and Fiona, they’d been isolated from the other prisoners. It wasn’t an uncommon practice, even in supposedly more civilized societies, to break captives’ minds with solitary confinement. Dorian doubted he’d last more than a day or two under such conditions. Despite his independent travels, there had always been the bustle of other people nearby. If you were truly alone in the world, what was the point of learning anything?

Since the others had no weapons, Karl led and Dorian took the rear-guard position. Cassandra’s confident stride in the Herald’s wake indicated she would take on anyone with her bare hands.

“It has been three days since they brought us food. Two, water,” she said.

Varric increased his pace to match her stride and looked up. “You can keep track of time down here? Cassandra, I’m impressed.”

She answered with a small smile. In a different time, it may have been beautiful, but here the red aura of her illness was demonish through her teeth. “The guards have been increasingly distracted as of late, and we may be able to use that to our advantage. We will be quickly caught and killed if wander aimlessly, however. What do you plan, Herald?”

Dorian winced. That blasted Chantry title again. Had Trevelyan’s companions no better sense than to irritate him with it at a time like this? Then again, perhaps her faith had been the only thing that kept her alive long enough to help them now.

Karl’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t break stride and Dorian couldn’t see his face.

“Dorian and I came here via time magic, and we’ll get back the same way. We find our other friends, find the amulet Gereon tried to kill me with, invade the throne room, and use the amulet to go back in time to prevent any of this from ever happening.”

Dorian feared Cassandra would balk at the use of time magic, but she merely hummed pensively.

“Well, shit,” Varric said. “I think ‘Heretical Rebel Supporter of Heresy’ was too tame a title for you. But after all we’ve seen, I’m cool with messing with the space-time continuum.”

That piqued Dorian’s interest. “You know of the theories of intersection between time and place?”

Varric shrugged. “I heard somebody mention it once. Doesn’t make me an expert.”

“What of our friends?” Karl asked, marching them up the stairs toward the interrogation rooms.

Varric sighed. “One look at Chuckles and the Elder One vaporized him with a flick of his wrist—zap!”

“He didn’t deserve that,” Karl said, “No matter how pompous he was.”

“Leliana and Harding should still be around here somewhere,” Cassandra said. “From what I saw before the Venatori separated us, they . . . they are the two questioned the most.”

Leo gave a little whimper and Varric lay a comforting hand on his elbow.

“Scout Ava took more than twenty Venatori down before she fell. And Ace,” Varric paused. “I’m sorry, Karl, but your horse fought to the death the very first day you were gone. Trampled a half-dozen guards and two enchanters before he went down.”

“Of course he did.” Karl slammed open the door at the top of the stairwell and it bounced against the wall with enough noise to alert the entire castle, but no one came running. “Trevelyan horses are the best.”

Down to their left, they found the interrogation rooms.

“How did Trevelyan know of the sacrifice at the temple? Answer!” A frustrated Venatori’s voice pierced through a wooden door, followed by a loud slap. “There's no use to this defiance, little bird. There's no one left for you to protect. Maybe if I made your pet scream.”

Scout Harding’s yell shook Dorian to his very marrow.

“No, please!” Leliana cried. “I do not know!”

Still unarmed, Cassandra leapt forward, blasted the door open with her shoulder, and let loose a battle cry fierce as any dragon.

There was one hooded Venatori in the center of the room. At his side was a long, plain table full of nasty-looking knives, magical artifacts, and other devices Dorian couldn’t identify. Leliana and Harding hung by their arms from chains in the ceiling.

The Venatori swung toward the intruders, brandishing a dull dagger that dripped with fresh blood. One distracted second sealed his demise.

Harding lashed out with her boot, which connected with the side of his head and sent him careening toward the Spymaster, who wrapped her legs around his neck, jerked them sideways, and broke his spine. He dropped to the floor like a rag doll.

“Herald, you live,” Leliana rasped out. “How?”

“Time magic,” Harding said, blood dripping from a jagged cut on her cheek, down her chin. “They’re obsessed with it. If the Venatori can use it for evil, I’m sure the Herald can use it for good.”

Leo rushed forward to hold Harding up while Dorian unshackled her. Karl and Cassandra did the same for Leliana. The Spymaster was paler than a corpse, her gaunt cheeks covered in black and blue shadows. She and the scout didn’t show the same lyrium sickness aura the others did, but Leliana carried some kind of blight-related illness that differed from Felix’s. Perhaps some were resistant to it and just carried scars? Now was not the time or place to ask.

“He hurt you.” Leo eased Harding to her feet and knelt in front of her, arms around her waist. “Your face.”

“It’s just a scratch, Leo. I’ll be fine.” She tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but her shaking arm flopped back down again. Maker only knew how long, or how many times, she’d been in those chains.

Dorian pulled an elfroot salve from his pouch. “Sorry I’m no healer, but would this help?”

“Yes, just as well as it does for humans. Would you mind? My hands . . .” She looked down at her fingers twitching at her sides.

“Not at all, my dear.” Dorian got down on one knee and coated her injury with the salve, very aware of Leo’s protective hold and sharp appraisal of Dorian’s hands. He wondered at Leo’s fierce closeness. It was unlikely the Venatori had let them spend much time together this past year. Then again, some people only needed one intense moment to form an attachment.

“Where are we?” Leliana asked.

The Seeker turned away and covered her mouth with her hand, blinking back tears.

“Redcliffe, Leliana,” Harding said patiently, as if she’d answered this question a hundred times and would be happy to do it a hundred more. “We’re fighting the Elder One.”

“That’s right,” Leliana said. “He killed the Templars, and Mother Giselle. There is,” she frowned and thought for a moment. “There is a red hole in the sky?”

“Yes, but the Herald found us.”

“The Breach is red?” Karl asked.

“The Breach is everywhere,” Harding said. “The Elder One tore the veil, covered the world in darkness and blighted lyrium. But it’s not exactly as he wanted. Alexius is scared, hiding in his throne room because he failed his master. Whatever you did at the Temple of Sacred Ashes prevented something worse than this from happening, and he can’t get back there to fix it. That’s all I could piece together from the guards’ conversations.”

“Worse? I can’t think of anything worse than what I saw in here, and I _can’t_ remember a blighted thing about the Temple! But I _do_ know what we need to do next: Dorian and I need to be in the throne room with Alexius’ amulet, go back in time to the ambush to keep this from happening.”

“This isn’t a game! It’s real!” Leliana lurched forward and Cassandra steadied her. “The world suffered. _I_ suffered.”

“Yes,” Harding said, “And he will pay, Leliana, but we need the pieces to his keystone.”

“A keystone?” Dorian asked. “Gereon’s sealed the doors with it?”

“Yes, but I overheard which rooms they’re guarded in, if you could guide us to them, Leliana? You spent some time in the castle during the Blight, right?”

“I know every hall and door.”

“Then let’s move,” Karl said. “Leo and Cassandra, keep close to our guides. The rest of us will cover you.”

The next room was an abandoned mess hall, with a couple of small supply rooms attached. A dry skeleton in loose Fereldan clothes sat in a chair against the wall, a sword sticking out of its chest. Karl ignored it and picked the lock on the weapons chest at his feet.

“We’ve got you covered, but you might need this,” he said, strapping a knife belt around Lace’s waist.

“Thank you.”

Karl huffed. “It’s my fault we’re here.”

“No,” she said. “It’s not.”

Once everyone was armed, they followed Leliana up another flight of stairs into the main courtyard. The sky was a starless, oily black, tinged with red. Instead of trees, red lyrium spikes grew up out of the ground and out of the castle walls.

Dorian shivered. The blighted lyrium reverberated with a vicious song that bit at the mana in his blood. How could Alexius have supported this? After all his claims for the greater good, the honor of Tevinter?

On their way to the main hall, they approached the stables.

“Pepper,” Harding gasped.

Sobbing, Leo ran forward and fell to his knees, cradling the dead mare’s head. She lay on her side, run through by a piece of red lyrium as thick as a sapling. Harding tried to lay a hand on his shoulder, but her arm shook and fell loosely to her side again.

Leo kissed the horse’s nose. “She’s still warm.

“You!” Tears suddenly gone, Leo jumped up, pointed a finger at Dorian. “If you had been an hour earlier, you could have saved her!”

Though her arms didn’t work right, Lace stepped in his way, and Karl stepped in front of Dorian to shield him. A noble gesture, but they needn’t have bothered. It _had_ been his overconfidence that had led them into Alexius’ trap, and if it made Leo feel better to punch him, so be it.

“No, Leo, no one could,” Lace said gently.

“Lace?” he looked down, broken as a lost child.

“She will be avenged,” Harding said. “I promise you.”

With a deep breath, Leo composed himself; his stance became as determined as Cassandra’s. “We have to get Karl to the throne room. Nothing else matters.”

Leo walked past him and paused, speaking with his back turned. “I’m sorry, Dorian. None of this is your fault.”

Oh, but it was. He’d studied time magic. Wasted efforts trying to parley with Alexius instead of going for help right away. Written the note to Karl that had led them all to this doom upon the world.

The Spymaster may have been forgetful about current events, but Leliana remembered the layout of Redcliffe castle as well as if it was her own life-long home. Avoiding Venatori at every turn, she swiftly led the silent group along dark hallways to the three rooms Harding said held the keystone pieces. There, battle could not be avoided.

Leo and Harding took shelter in a corner. He stood at her side, daggers drawn, but the other fighters in their party felled the Venatori before any enemies could get close.

The fights in the library, worship space, and Enchanters’ dining room were swift and desperate. The fear in the fallen men’s eyes would haunt Dorian’s dreams forever. So much Tevinter blood spilt. Not that nations mattered anymore. The world was dead.

Everyone in their party was ill or injured. They were all fatigued, shoulders slumping, eyes drooping, as they plodded on through the dank, empty foyer, up the steps to the locked throne room.

Harding looked back over her shoulder toward the middle of the room, where a giant, oblong chalk-white scorch covered the floor, walls, and ceiling: a stark mark of violent magic that was untouched by the dirty grime of the last desperate year. Her voice took on a venomous edge. “That bastard needs to die.”

Karl handed Dorian the keystone pieces. They were easy enough to mend together with a disambiguation spell. The thick gold disc filled his palm like a giant coin.

“Go ahead,” Karl nodded toward the door, “while we still have some stamina left.”

Dorian feared what he’d find behind that door. But he feared more what would happen if he didn’t open it.

He lifted the keystone into the indentation in the center of the towering stone doors and pushed. It clicked into place, sending glowing gold shoots of magic up and around the doors’ seams. The hissing rush of light made him blink and take a step back. With another click, the doors swung open on their own.

The throne room was as dark as the foyer, save for a little orange fire in the hearth by the dais. A lone figure stood in front of it. Karl led them cautiously up the middle of the room, letting his footfalls be heard, but no one jumped from the dark. No one called out a challenge. No one acknowledged their presence.

As they neared the dais, the shadowy figure tilted his head, as if listening to their approach.

“Felix, what have I wrought?” It was Gereon, utterly despondent. “Ruin and death.”

Then Dorian saw the second person there, crouched low to the ground like a frog. He turned his stark-white face in their direction. His eyes held no soul.

Shock was emptiness. Dorian could not think. Could not feel. Could not even form the questions _Why?_ Or _How?_ Could not cry over the horror. Felix’s vacant expression became a vacant space inside Dorian.

Dorian jumped when Leliana leapt forward with a frenzied shriek to plunge a dagger in Gereon’s chest, over and over, and over again.

“Leliana, no!” Harding cried, tears streaming down her face. Her righteous anger from the foyer was long gone.

Leliana turned toward Felix, who looked at her dispassionately. A bolt whizzed between them and hit Felix dead in the heart, knocking him to the floor.

“Sorry, Dorian,” Varric holstered Bianca. “I know you loved them. I—I’ve been—I’ve had to make a decision like this before.”

The words did not help. Anger ripped away the emptiness. He wanted to smite Leliana and Varric right there.

The roar of a giant beast shook the castle.

“What the fuck was that?” Karl gasped out, clutching at Dorian’s elbow.

“The Elder One,” Leliana said calmly, as though she hadn’t just viciously taken a man’s life like a madwoman, or heard a monster headed their way. She bent and took the amulet from Gereon’s pocket, tossed it to Karl, who caught it with one hand. “Make your spell quickly. We will hold them off as long as we can.”

Karl’s grip tightened painfully on Dorian’s arm. “We’ll make this count. I swear it.”

Dorian didn’t know if they could, but saying more words wouldn’t help either.

Cassandra drew her sword. “Leo, Scout Harding, close the doors behind us.” Leliana and Varric followed the Seeker into the foyer.

Karl’s brother pushed the doors closed. “Lace, get behind me.”

“No.” She fumbled with the dagger on her belt for a moment and gave up with a curse. “I can still kick shins and claw eyes. If this is our last stand, it’s going to be together.”

“Yes, Ser.” He smiled, sickly red glowing through his teeth.

Karl watched them raptly, anguish clear on his face, but he did not appear on the verge of another panic attack.

“Karl,” Dorian gently ran a finger over Karl’s clenched fist. “May I have the amulet, please?”

Karl uncurled his fingers.

“I’m going to need both hands.”

“Oh!” Karl released his hold on Dorian’s arm. “Of course.”

“Stay by my side, just as we were when we left through the first rift.”

Panic flashed in Karl’s eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’m here and we’re going back together to set things right.” Or this really was the end of the world and he had no one to blame but himself. He’d led Karl into this trap.

Dorian planted his feet, grounding his magic in exactly the same spot he’d stood just before the rift had yanked them through time and space. It didn’t matter if they stood precisely as they had before. A five-foot radius out from where they stood now should all be safe ground, affected by the spell. The amulet was the focus that would get them back. He made it hover over one open palm, held his staff by it to channel extra energy safely away toward the ground, and searched for the threads of time Gereon had torn. Ah, there, and there were the start and end he wanted.

Thuds and screams echoed in the hall outside. Blasts of magic, the smashing of steel on steel, the cry of a terror demon. Venatori soldiers taunting in Tevene.

“Come and get it, assholes,” Harding muttered.

Dorian eased his mana into the split ends of time, cautiously following each of Gereon’s hurried mistakes where the fabric had warped, easing them back together, following only those that led back to where they wanted to be. Had the spell been done correctly and not with hasty desperation, he could have reversed it with less effort than a snap of his fingers. This was a mess, like a ball of twine shredded with a dull blade, and it would be all too easy to end up in the wrong place—the amulet wouldn’t go with them for him to try again—or out of time altogether. To cease to exist.

The doors burst open. A terror demon plodded in, dragging Cassandra and Leliana’s bodies and dropped them on the floor. Venatori swordsmen rushed in with it. Leo charged them with a furious roar and flurry of blades.

A soldier dove for Harding, but she rolled sideways and lashed out with her boot into his jaw; there was a loud snap of his neck and he fell dead. “May the Dread Wolf eat your hairy eyeballs, and the Lady bathe in your tears,” she growled.

Leo laughed, the sound cut short with a gurgle as four swordsmen hit him at once.

Karl choked out a sob and covered his mouth with both his hands. Helpless, he watched his brother’s body fall.

The terror demon bent over, lashing out at the dwarf, who didn’t roll fast enough to avoid a slice of talons across her shoulder. She cried out and lunged to her feet, bent like a battering ram, and charged at the demon’s knees.

“Lace!” Karl lurched forward and Dorian yanked him back.

“You move, we all die!”

The demon and Venatori turned their attention toward the dais.

They were out of time. In another second or two, they’d be out of safe space as well.

Logic and strategy fell away. He let the mana flow with instinctual movements, like he did when swinging his staff blade in the heat of battle. Following paths faster than thought, his will _pushed_ them back to the day they’d infiltrated Redcliffe Castle, the moment Gereon had pulled the amulet from his pocket. Quick as a Fade Step, they passed through time and space like they were air, and landed on their feet in front of Gereon and Felix.

Karl grabbed Dorian’s arm again to keep his footing and regain his bearings.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Dorian quipped to cover his breathlessness and Karl’s disorientation, and grabbed the amulet from the air, sticking it in his pocket.

Gereon fell to his knees. “You’ve won. There’s no point in continuing this charade.”

“It’s going to be all right, Father.” Felix knelt down beside him.

Felix. Whole, alive. With his own personality. Fully aware and human. A well of grief rose in Dorian’s chest. For what had been, for what might happen. For what was inevitable, even if they defeated the Venatori. He reached over and squeezed Karl’s hand where it gripped his arm.

“I know,” Karl whispered. “Dorian, I’m so sorry.”

“But you’ll die,” Gereon said.

Felix put his arms around him. “Everyone dies.”

Leo rushed forward. “What the hell kind of spell was that? Karl, you’re soaking wet and covered in blood!”

“Time magic,” Karl said. “We can explain after the Magister is secured.”

Scout Ava brought forth enchanted shackles for Gereon, who allowed himself to be led toward the door, head bowed. The sight pulled at Dorian’s heart, but it was still a better fate than the horrible murder he’d witnessed five minutes earlier.

“Well, I’m glad that’s over with.” Dorian said. The sound of many armored boots echoed up the hall and his relief fled. “Or not.”

King Alistair marched in wearing Royal battle armor in shining gold, his entire house guard with him. All had their weapons drawn and expressions full of the kind of determination that meant only one thing:

War.


	9. Lost Loves, Missing Wardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata) and [ MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd).
> 
> NSFW.
> 
>  

“We must warn the Templars!” Karl struggled not to shout. Despite his exhaustion, his body screamed for action. The Arl’s study was too small, too tight. Suffocating him like a static cage, when he should be out there, doing something. “The Elder One will turn them into monsters.”

His hands trembled. He’d had little sleep before riding to Redcliffe, traveled through time twice, panicked in Dorian’s arms, and fought Venatori in a red nightmare. Dorian’s rejuvenation potion shouldn’t have gotten him through even a tenth of that. He hoped he didn’t say anything too rash that Leliana couldn’t get him out of.

“I can offer you my two fastest riders, Leliana,” King Alistair said, turning as he spoke so his squire—an elven woman with no vallaslin—could finish unbuckling his heavy gold armor. He bent awkwardly when the gold pendant around his neck caught on the chest plate. She untangled the chain with practiced ease and handed him his casual jerkin. “Thank you, Clarissa.” She bowed and left with his gear.

Back in the throne room, it had been surprisingly easy to convince the King to lower his sword. One look at the dead mages on the floor, the shackled Magister, and eager-to-atone Felix, and Alistair was willing to parley with the Inquisition about the fate of Fiona’s people. He remembered Karl and Leo from some boring Chantry dinner and had already exchanged correspondence with Josephine a few times, so he was willing to tolerate the Inquisition’s presence in his uncle’s house. For one night only.

Then again, it might have had everything to do with his close friendship with the Nightingale and nothing to do with the rest of them.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Leliana said. “But I cannot in good conscience send your messengers blindly, before we have scouted the land.”

That was slower than Karl would have liked, but she was right: caution was needed now.

“As you wish,” Alistair said. “Just say the word, or send me a bird, when you’d like my help.

“Lord Trevelyan, what is the Inquisition’s next move?”

“I promised Fiona I’d go to Val Royeaux,” Karl said.

“When?” Leliana asked. “We have not yet seen her.”

“In the future.” Hysteria rushed through his ears like a windstorm. He blinked away the image of her glowing red corpse.

Karl breathed deeply like Dorian had shown him, pulled his attention back to the present with tremendous effort. He opened his eyes to find Alistair and Leliana watching him, quiet and knowing. They had seen horrors of their own, knew he needed a moment. Knowing that made it easier to keep talking. “They can’t seal the Breach, but they could be a force against the lies of the Elder One. If everyone believes he’s coming and that he needs to be fought . . .”

“A sound plan,” Leliana said.

Karl glanced at the other people in the room, but they had nothing to contribute.

Behind Alistair stood an olive-skinned mage with thick black hair and bright grey-green eyes. Alistair had introduced him as Enchanter Alan, his Arcane Advisor.

_Advisor? Or bodyguard?_

The mage stood at-ease with the same confidence Karl had seen in veterans accustomed to winning battles. He probably didn’t _need_ a staff. If Alan was pure scholar, then Karl was the next Divine.

In the shadows at the side of the room was a cloaked figure who could have been human or elf. They hadn’t been introduced, but seemed to be in attendance to the King.

“Dorian and I saw what will happen, should the Elder One succeed. Red skies, tainted earth. You and Celene dead. Demons everywhere. Agonies not even a Blight could foreshadow.”

Alistair gave a humorless chuckle. “Blights. Archdemons. Wardens. In death . . . sacrifice.”

The room fell into a tense, morose silence.

Alistair’s Steward knocked and opened the door. “Grand Enchanter Fiona, Your Majesty. Enchanter Guerrin is seeing the children settled and will be here shortly.”

“Thank you, Hill.”

Fiona hurried forward and bowed. “Your Majesty, we never intended—”

“I know what you intended.” The King had been a calm strategist before she entered. Now he scowled and his lips pinched together in anger.

“I wanted to help you, but you’ve made it impossible. Duncan promised me you were better than this. He said you were fearless, Fiona.” She flinched. “It’s not just you. What you’ve done to the others—I need to protect them and you’ve made it so I can’t! I _can’t_ help you. You gave Redcliffe to a Tevinter Magister—helped the Imperium invade my kingdom! The whys of what you’ve done don’t matter. The result is the same.”

Alistair shook his head and took a deep breath. “You and your followers are no longer welcome in Redcliffe. Ferelden’s crown cannot offer you sanctuary.”

Karl had known it was coming, but the pronouncement still hit him like a fist to the chest.

“But we have hundreds who need protection! Where will we go?”

“You can find shelter in Haven,” Karl said, chin high, looking Fiona in the eye. “It’s a difficult journey, and it’s not a permanent solution. Resources are scarce, but we can make it work. There is also the issue of leadership.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed in anger and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, the free mages have called for a vote. It seems that ‘Grey Warden’ is not the only title I am doomed to lose, despite all the lives I have saved.”

“Please, Fiona,” Alistair gentled his tone. “Go with them.”

She stared at Alistair for a long moment, glanced at his advisor, and then back to Karl. “Very well, Your Majesty, I will follow the Herald of Andraste to Haven.” She turned on her heel and left the study.

Alistair sighed heavily and leaned on his fists atop the Arl’s desk, head bowed, eyes squeezed tightly shut. His pendant slipped from his collar and swung gently back and forth in the candlelight. It had been broken into several pieces and patched with thick lines of white glue. On it, the emblem of Andraste’s Flame was barely recognizable. Karl hadn’t known Ferelden’s King was that devout. Alistair straightened and tucked it back into his collar.

The Steward knocked again. He’d been perfectly impassive about Fiona, but now he smiled broadly, as if announcing the birth of his own grandchild. “Grand Enchanter Connor Guerrin, Your Majesty. The vote was unanimous.”

“Connor!” The King came around the desk and hugged him. “Will I see you at dinner?” Alistair looked as hopeful as a mabari pup.

“Of course, cousin. The leader of the free mages would never decline an invitation from his King.”

Alistair grinned. “Lord Trevelyan, may I present Grand Enchanter Connor Guerrin of the free mages. With him at your side, you will have enough mana to close the Breach.”

“We’re invited to Haven?” Connor asked. “Even if you don’t kick us out, the villagers will be uneasy when they learn of my new position. I thought I’d have to try to barter passage for us on several ships to Rivain or Antiva.”

In the corner, the cloaked figure scoffed.

Karl blinked, eyes blurring as he tried to force his foggy Marcher mind to remember why the villagers would—ah, yes. As a child, Connor had made a pact with a demon in an effort to save his father’s life; the demon had possessed him and attacked Redcliffe Village with walking corpses. The Hero of Ferelden had brought a Witch of the Wilds to cure Connor of the possession, and then the boy was shipped off to the Circle. The revelation that Connor was a mage was the reason why Connor’s uncle Teagan was now Arl, instead of Connor.

With a start, Karl realized Alistair and Leliana must have been there—here—with the Hero when Connor was cured. The King was still grinning with pride. When compared to her usual stern demeanor, Leliana’s small smile was as bright as the sun; she didn’t seem to fear the new Grand Enchanter at all.

“Yes,” Karl said, “the Inquisition would be honored to have the mages as allies in our mission to seal the Breach.”

“And after that?” Connor asked.

“That’s up to you.”

“Very well, Lord Trevelyan, I will ready my people for the journey to Haven.”

“We can figure out the details in the morning,” Alistair said.

“Yes,” Connor said. “I think that would be best.” He hesitated a moment. “Lord Trevelyan?”

Karl resisted the urge to sit on the rug and rub his eyes. “Yes, Grand Enchanter?”

“If I may say so, my lord, you look tired.”

“A room has been prepared for you, Lord Trevelyan,” the King said. “And you are welcome to join my table for dinner.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He bowed and tried not to fall over. “I think I will retire early.”

The door hadn’t closed tightly when Connor entered, and now stood open in invitation. Good, because Karl didn’t think he had the strength to turn a knob. He leaned on the door frame, rested his forehead on his forearm.

The hall was long.

He didn’t know where to go.

Hushed voices continued behind him, but they washed over his dulled mind without comprehension.

“Alistair, you need another treatment,” Alan said, his accent just as Fereldan as the King’s. “ _Today_.”

“Yes, yes, before dinner.”

“How bad is it?” Leliana asked.

“I’m standing right here,” Alistair grumbled. “If you want to gossip with Alan, at least wait until my back is turned.”

“Well?” she asked.

“Two or three times a week,” Alan said.

“ _Alistair_ ,” she said.

“It’s manageable,” the King answered. “Alan’s brilliant, and it’s not like I’ve not had these nightmares before. The whispers, however . . . they’re creepier than I’ve ever heard. And horribly insistent.”

“Have you—” she stopped herself.

“No, an Archdemon isn’t talking right now. Maker, we can’t—Leliana, it’s too soon! Ten years since the last one. Could the Darkspawn have found another Old God by now? We’ve already got demons pouring out of the sky and popping up out of the ground. Crazed Templars. Terrified mages. This unholy war already has more casualties than Loghain’s treachery did, just in Ferelden. Celene’s mess . . . what did Cailan see in her anyway? She’s as haughty as Anora, but Anora had her shit together. The people _liked_ Anora—she may have been a back-stabbing bitch, but she knew how to work politics.”

“Are you reconsidering Lord Trevelyan’s plan to warn the Empress?” Alan asked.

“No. Maker, no. I want Orlais’ civil war _over_ , not made worse. And you know her cousin Gaspard wants to invade us again, right? After my father and grandmother kicked those bastards out.”

Alan’s answer was terse. “Yes, Alistair, I am well acquainted with the history of our homeland and the Theirins’ place in it.”

“Alan, I’m sorry,” Alistair groaned. “I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it.”

“Alan—”

“It’s okay. We’re both stressed, and you need a treatment.”

“Yes,” the King sighed. “Will you join us, Connor?”

“Of course. Alan can tell me all the foolish things you’ve been up to.”

“Leliana,” Alistair said, “we’ll meet you at dinner. Um, maybe you two want to catch up.”

“I would be delighted to parry words with you again, my lovely goddess.” The figure in the shadows had a bright Antivan accent.

Leliana snorted in amusement. “Let us hope you have sharpened your wit, as well as your blades.”

“Karl. Karl.” A distant voice tried several times before he understood they meant him.

“There’s a room ready for you. I can show you.” Lace was there, offering her hand in a casual gesture he could accept or ignore.

Arm heavy and slow, he reached out and she wrapped her strong, warm fingers around his clammy ones, gently tugging him forward.

“It’s this way,” she said.

Each step was automatic. He drifted in her wake. He watched his feet, unable to summon the effort to raise his head.

“Here we are.” Her hand was at his back with a soft push to move him across the threshold and guide him to sit on the bed. His head flopped forward, jolting him awake, and he grabbed the quilt, scared to fall.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Almost there.” His boots and breastplate were off, and she had nearly all the buttons of his leather jacket undone.

With another gentle tug of his hand, she led him up to the pillow and covered him with the quilt.

Her parting words came to him as if under water. “There’s a runner and a guard just outside the door. They’ll get me right away if you need anything.”

He didn’t understand. He was already dreaming. Dreaming of a happy day that had broken his heart.

-

Karl dreamed of a day, back before Kirkwall.

It rained in the Circle courtyard. A steady stream of water poured forth from the skies. Raindrops bounced off the ceramic roof with sharp echoes. Splats and splatters on the garden sidewalks. Muddy rivulets ran from the rose bushes into the embrium beds. Thunder shook the sky after every flash of white lightning. Only Karl and Lance were brave enough to be out here under the swirling clouds, such a dark blue they were nearly black.

Lance spun in a circle, face upturned to catch the fresh water in his mouth until it overflowed like a white marble fountain. He spat a stream high up and across the walk into the overflowing bird bath. Karl laughed and tried to mimic him, but he didn’t have the same handle on the elements.

“Watch,” Lance said, grinning through the streams of water that ran from his bright red hair, down his freckled cheeks. Arms outstretched, he raised his palms toward the stormy sky and conjured flames that sat cupped in his hands, dancing wildly under the water, giving off hissing steam but in no danger of going out. Just as alive and vibrant as the young man who made them.

“That’s beautiful,” Karl breathed out.

“Easy parlor trick,” Lance said. “Well, mine are a bit bigger and longer-lasting than most. I don’t know why other mages can’t hold fire in the rain for more than a few seconds. It’s magic fire. It should only go out if I will it to.”

Karl crossed his arms over his chest and shivered. Once they’d stopped running around, the rain had cooled his spine. He didn’t want to go in. With everyone else. “Is there _anything_ here at the Circle _anyone_ can do better than you?”

Lance laughed, loud and unashamed, his throat moving beautifully under the lightning-filled sky. “Oh, Karl, I’ve only been an Enchanter for a few days. The Grand Enchanter still calls me ‘child.’ I’m thrilled to be here with loads of talented people I can catch up with.”

“And the Templars?” Mother said Templars rightly did worse to mages than lock them in closets.

“Stuffy, but they mind their hands and manners. It’s easy for me because I like all the rules—well,” he smirked and winked, his incredibly long blond eyelashes kissing his cheeks, “There’s _one_ rule I don’t care for much, but it’s not another mage who’s caught my eye.”

Karl was glad his brown cheeks—the only warm part of him by this point—hid his blush. He never made Lance’s skin pinken, but the other boy’s knowing looks were even better than blushes. At first, Karl hadn’t tried to play this game; he didn’t understand why one look at a pretty person had other teens tongue-tied and tripping over their toes. Even Leo, a few years back, had stammered over some nobleman’s daughter at one of Mother’s soirees, immediately taken by her long fingers and wild curls. But Lance, who had spent nearly every spare moment of the last ten years with Karl, was different than all the other pretty faces: kind despite his brilliance, witty without cruelty, and more beautiful than the sun. It was like the thunderstorm had moved into Karl’s stomach; did Lance really mean it, or was he just teasing? Was he still interested? He’d eased off after offering the first few flirty winks last year, when Karl didn’t really know what to do about it. Actually, he’d _known_ , but he hadn’t . . . _felt_ it. His heart hadn’t shown him the way. Now it did.

“Lan—Lance?” Damn his chattering teeth for ruining an otherwise perfect moment. This was the most romantic afternoon he’d ever experienced—the only romantic afternoon he’d ever experienced—and he wanted to grab it with both hands before it disappeared.

“Oh, for Maker’s sake, you’re freezing.” Lance dropped his hands and the fire died. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

Panic welled up in Karl’s chest. He hadn’t told him yet.

“Oh, but I don’t want to go in.”

“We’re not.” He took Karl’s hand and led him to the stand of fruit trees behind the gazebo. His grip was as warm as a fluffy rug in front of a blazing hearth. The welcome heat slipped across Karl’s skin under the still-pouring rain, delved deep into his chest, and curled its way down into his toes. He didn’t know if it was magic or . . . love that warmed him within.

“Here we are.” Still holding Karl’s hand, Lance waved his other overhead, creating a thin white barrier like an opaque tarp between trees, taller than a short camping tent, yet short enough that they could watch the raindrops patter on the makeshift roof.

Karl could barely concentrate on the lovely show because he still held Lance’s hand. The whole world was wrapped up in that point of contact. If he let go, Karl didn’t know what he would do. “Wow. It’s lovely. You can sustain that without thinking about it?”

“Well, yeah.” Lance tilted his head with a half-smile that crinkled his eyes. “Can’t you talk and ride a horse at the same time?”

“This is a bit more amazing than riding a horse.” The words were out before Karl could stop them and he held his breath. Even someone dumb would understand he wasn’t talking about a magic barrier.

Lance’s smile was slow and knowing this time. He pressed his free hand to Karl’s chest and a light steam rose from Karl’s linen shirt, quickly dissipating to leave him dry. Karl’s heart pounded. Though he didn’t say a word, his lips couldn’t quite touch each other as his breaths puffed in and out. Lance’s hand meandered down the front of his shirt, over his quivering belly, and along his belt to his hip, where he dried Karl’s breeches with a single steamy touch, just like his shirt.

“I—I want to touch you,” Karl said. It should have sounded silly—they were still holding hands—but Lance didn’t seem to think it silly at all.

With a cocky curve of his lips, Lance took Karl’s other hand and pressed it to his own chest, where his shirt was saturated and sticking to his skin. The muscles there were surprisingly large and well-defined for someone who spent his days with books.

Karl gasped in happy surprise as steam rose up from under his palm. With a rush of casual power from within himself, Lance had dried his own shirt and breeches.

“Karl, is this okay?”

The cold was long gone, but Karl was shaking. Why was he shaking? He _wanted_ this. “Yes. Definitely. More than okay.”

“You’ll tell me what you want, what you don’t, when we need to stop?”

Karl nodded emphatically, so fast he almost made himself dizzy. “Yes, yes, and yes. You have to promise me the same.”

Lance’s answering chuckle held so much _promise_ it made Karl’s breathing speed up again.

There they stood, hearts racing, holding hands, Lance still pressing Karl’s palm to his chest. Lance slowly leaned forward, watching with clear blue eyes that delved into Karl’s very soul. “I promise,” he whispered against his mouth.

And kissed him.

Firm and dry at first, then he licked over Karl’s lips, sending a molten wave of bliss through his body, and leaned back with a cautious look Karl wanted to erase, so Karl pressed in closer, pinning their joined hands between them and kissed him back, urging his lips open with his tongue. Lance’s answering moan emboldened him into pushing, exploring. He banished his worries that he wouldn’t do it _right_ and focused on what felt good, memorizing every movement and sound that Lance seemed to like so he could pursue those spots again.

“Hmm,” Lance nuzzled into Karl’s shoulder and slid his hands around his back, up his spine and over his freshly-shaved scalp. “I miss your hair,” he whispered, sending a pleasant thrill through Karl’s chest.

Yes, if only he’d had these feelings last summer, and invited Lance to touch his dozens of frizzy braids that weekend they’d shared a room. Maybe he would have, if Lance had been allowed to visit more than once.

“Mother thinks it uncouth.” Lady Trevelyan had been so irate that Sister Kate let him grow it out during his Andrastian studies at the Abbey that she’d seen the sister dismissed. Leo later snuck Karl a letter saying Sister Kate was much happier in a tiny Fereldan chantry than she’d ever been in Ostwick.

“This is nice, too.” He massaged Karl’s scalp with his thumb and came up for another kiss, more desperate this time.

Karl’s whole body throbbed with the hammering of his heart. “Lance, please.”

“What do you want?”

“Your skin.” It came out rougher than he’d intended, rushed and coarse, but Lance’s answering grin was just as primal.

They broke away just long enough to hurriedly shed their boots and clothes, coming back together with desperate kisses and groping hands. Karl stopped trying to categorize and memorize each part of the experience like a history lesson. He rode high on just _feeling_.

Soft skin and sleek muscle. Their hardened cocks pressed up against their stomachs. Lance’s magical hands squeezing his ass, stroking his cock.

The buzz inside his skull as it drowned out all sounds except the pleasured gasping of his lover. Feeling so full of _feeling_ , the rest of the world faded away into nothing.

He thrust his hips up with a cry that rivaled the thunder overhead and came in Lance’s hand, covering them both. A few seconds later, Lance followed, face buried in Karl’s bare shoulder as he shuddered out his climax.

As their hammering hearts slowed, Karl gradually became aware of other things again. The soft, damp grass under his bare feet. The steady drum of the rain on the barrier they stood under.

Lance’s breathless chuckle was the hottest thing he’d ever heard.

“Wish I could say I wanted to give you something sweeter, but that was pretty amazing. You,” he looked up and traced Karl’s upper lip with an index finger, “are amazing.”

Karl reached down to massage Lance’s ass, liking the little growl he gave in response. “We don’t have to go in yet, do we?”

“Like this? Buck naked and covered in semen?” Lance laughed. “Certainly not. But I know what you meant, and I agree. How about a little shower before round two?” He pointed up toward the barrier. “I promise to keep you warm.”

Karl tightened his grip. “Go for it.”

In a whoosh, the cold rain poured down on them, washing them clean while they held each other and practiced more kisses. He didn’t know if hours or days passed. He didn’t care.

Then Lance made love with him, wrapped around his back, while they lay on their sides on the soaked grassy ground. They used their rolled clothes as awkward pillows for their necks, and what they lacked in experience they more than made up for with enthusiasm and laughter.

After, they dragged their soaking wet clothes into the gazebo for Lance to dry again. Their cloaks sat on the bench where they’d abandoned them earlier.

“Your riding cloak, Lord Trevelyan,” Lance quipped, fastening it around Karl’s neck with a flourish.

“Lance, please—”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘Don’t use my title,’ but, you know, not everyone can say their best friend is the son of a Bann. Or,” he said slyly, “their _lover_.”

“I haven’t made things more dangerous for you here, have I?” Karl asked, stricken. They’d just broken a major Circle rule that could lead to severe punishments for Lance. He’d gotten caught up in his own wanton desire to share his feelings and not thought at all about the consequences for a mage.

“No, my love,” Lance pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “You are worth any risk, but I am not in danger here.”

“I love you, too,” Karl choked out. “I—I’m sorry I couldn’t say it earlier.”

“Don’t,” Lance said sharply. “Don’t apologize for it.” He softened his tone and wrapped an arm around him. “There’s nothing wrong with the affection you held earlier. I would have lived my life out happily with that kind of love, Karl. Where we are now is a special gift I’ll treasure always, but it’s no more noble than what we had before.”

Karl rushed in with one last, desperate kiss, pouring his heart into it, trying to show Lance just how much more wonderful things were now.

Lance walked him to the stables and waved goodbye as Karl rode out the main gate toward the Bann’s estate. Despite his sore arse, it was a happy ride home, dry and warm under his cloak as the rain dripped off his hood and his strong horse’s proud nose. He’d be home in plenty of time for Mother’s formal dinner, where he would be a perfect son.

-

Leo missed Karl. Pepper sweetly nuzzled at his neck, but she couldn’t offer him the _words_ he needed after seeing Karl covered in blood and dripping dirty dungeon water.

After the Magister was led away in enchanted shackles, Karl had met with the King and went to bed alone without supper. Lace assured Leo that Karl was fine—as fine as one could be after fighting battles and witnessing horrors the rest of them had not seen. Leo had offered to attend the meeting, but Karl had been adamant that Leo check on Ace and Pepper.

“Give her lots of kisses,” he’d said, “and make sure he gets extra sugar cubes. Extra brushing, if they want it. Anything they want.” The panicked glint in his eye was worrisome, but he’d calmed once Leo assured him he’d see to it the horses were well and happy.

Dinner was a subdued affair at the King’s table in the Arl’s dining room. Servants served fresh fruits, vegetables, and hot meat pies like tavern fare, set in the middle of the table for the monarch and his guests to help themselves, family-style. Ale, wine, and water sat beside every diner’s plate. Leo nibbled a little bit of everything and sipped at his water. He needed the nourishment, but nothing smelled appealing after the shocks of the day.

Grand Enchanter Connor sat to the King’s right. The Arcane Advisor, Alan, sat to his left. Leliana, Lace, and Leo sat to Alan’s left, leaving the seats beside the Grand Enchanter empty.

Dorian had also retired early and alone, but had accepted a tray brought to his room.

Though clearly uncomfortable, Alistair played the perfect host. He made polite inquiries about Scout Harding’s work with the Dennet family and asked after the Trevelyans’ horse breeding program. He steered conversation away from the war and toward the things they were fighting for. What they all hoped to return to when the fighting was over.

Eventually, the King rose and everyone stood as he did. “Rest as well as you can, everyone. I have a feeling the real work begins tomorrow.”

He left to a chorus of “Your Majesty” and bows. His cousin, advisor, and Leliana followed him out of the room, leaving Lace and Leo alone.

“More pudding?” she asked, settling back in her seat.

“Thank you.” He was relieved to have the excuse to remain in friendly company a while longer.

They both stirred their desserts with their spoons, not really in the mood to eat.

“So,” she said. “Karl offered the free mages sanctuary, and you’re taking them back to Haven with you.”

“Yes.” He should say something more, but he didn’t know what. She had made sure they had camps, seen to it the dead had respectful pyres, walked unafraid into the Magister’s lair, ready to drag Karl out by secret ways. There weren’t words large enough for the vast ocean of gratitude within him. “Thank you, for all your help.”

“I just led you up the hill, my lord. A task your brother could have managed alone.”

“I mean thank you for all your work in the Hinterlands. A lot of people were saved because of your quick leadership.” Leliana had told him a bit about the new lead scout before he and Karl had left Haven. The reports had been professional, but the Leliana’s voice had held a brightness he’d not heard from her before. The grim Spymaster _liked_ Lace—personally—so the dwarf must be special.

“You’re welcome. I must confess I do it as much for my home as I do it for the Inquisition.”

“All the more noble, then.”

“You’re easy to please,” she chuckled and took a hearty bite of pudding.

“I am.”

But he didn’t think Val Royeaux’s Chantry Mothers would be. He doubted anyone could please them now. At least they wouldn’t have Templars there, ready to kill Karl on sight. If the meeting didn’t end in disaster, their small group might even make it to Haven before Connor’s mages did.

-

Deep in dreaming, Karl was rolled into a tiny, quivering ball under the bedsheets when a loud knock woke him.

“Lord Trevelyan,” the runner called. “Sorry to be wakin’ ye, but y’said ya wanted to know when the King’s sideboard was ready with breakfast. I’ve let yer clean clothes on the chair out here.”

“Thank you!” Karl called out groggily, relieved to be pulled out of the dream before what came next. He quickly washed his face and body as best he could with clean, cold water from the vanity basin. He had a vague memory of Lace Harding taking his soiled armor and weapons for cleaning, but felt confident enough with just his boot knife at breakfast. He had plenty of armed allies about and King Alistair probably wanted him alive even more than Cassandra did.

He couldn’t feel guilty about the dream, having such a clear, relivable memory of Lance before he’d been shipped off to Kirkwall and Knight-Commander Meredith’s reign of terror. It was pure, and innocent, and good. He wouldn’t trade it for memories of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, no matter how many vital secrets they held. _Love_ was why he fought to save the world, not fear.

In the dining room, he found Ava reporting to Leliana. “There is no sign of Warden Blackwall, my lady. The cabin by the Upper Lake Camp was abandoned days ago. The locals say a beefy, bearded human helped them repel a bandit raid, then disappeared into the night. The trail leads north before it’s lost in the wilderness. He may be trying to lose us.”

“I doubt he caught wind of you, Ava. It is likely he has decided to move on. In recent years, he’s been more reclusive than he was in the old tales.” Leliana sighed. “I will speak with Alistair again, but Weisshaupt is also silent, and the Spirit Healer missing.”

 _Weisshaupt_. The mysterious stronghold of the Grey Wardens, far north in the Anderfels.

“My lady.” Scout Ava bowed and left the room.

“Trouble with Wardens?” Karl asked. He set his plate, heaped with bacon and pancakes, beside Leliana’s and sat. The pristine white tablecloth was a shock after the broken mess of wood he’d seen in this room yesterday.

 _That didn’t happen. It’s not going to happen. We will prevent it._ Karl gave himself a mental shake and tried to focus on his current reality.

“They are missing, in Ferelden and in Orlais.” Leliana poked at a red grape with her fork, then set it aside and pushed her plate away. “Alistair sent Warden-Commander Clarel a missive, but the courier was turned away, and now we do not know where the Orlesian Wardens have gone.”

“Why did the King send a missive?”

“I couldn’t say,” Leliana said, overly casual, sipping her tea. She just didn’t want to tell him why. That was fine. Frustrating, but fine. She would let him know if it became important to the Inquisition’s mission to close the Breach and defeat the Elder One.

“Sorry I’m late.” King Alistair filled his own plate at the sideboard and sat down across from them.

Along with him was a blond elf with smooth tan skin and three wavy lines tattooed along his cheek, up beside his eye. Completely at ease, the elf sipped steaming coffee and pretended to ignore everyone else at the table. Neither the King, nor his companion, nor Leliana, offered an introduction.

“I was talking with my Steward. I rely on Hill so much, I’m scared to cut his conversations short.

“Before we speak of more pleasant things, there is one thing I wanted to tell you: The Inquisition is welcome to station representatives at Fort Connor until the Breach is closed and the Elder One caught. You needn’t worry about my troops or Teagan’s trying to clear you out. Consider it our thanks for clearing the rogue Templars out of there.”

Karl hadn’t even thought about land rights yet, he’d been so focused on saving the mages from the Magister. He’d have to ask Lady Montilyet if there were any other ownership issues the Inquisition needed to address. “Thank you, Your Majesty. We will not overstay our welcome. Also, the Marquis DuRellion has allowed the Inquisition to shelter refugees at Haven and set up temporary operations there. Perhaps the Inquisition should have petitioned you for permission?”

Alistair gave Leliana a confused look.

“Lady Marchen’s husband raised a fuss in Josephine’s office,” she said, stirring honey into her tea. “But he left quietly for his estate in Orlais and shouldn’t be any further trouble.”

“Well, Marchen’s Fereldan even if her pompous Orlesian husband isn’t, so feel free to tell him King Alistair says to bugger off.”

The elf chuckled.

“No, don’t do that,” Alistair’s cheeks pinkened. “Uh, you know how to handle that, right, Leliana?”

“The ambassador has it well in hand.”

The King sighed in relief. “Good. I have enough dangers to address east and north of Lake Calenhad, so I’m happy to leave Haven in your care for now.” He paused, lost in thought. “Is it difficult to be back there?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I don’t ever want to go back to the Frostbacks,” Alistair said. “Too many memories of Kate.”

Leliana placed her gloveless hand over his on the table.

“Ah, alas, you do not hold hands with me,” the elf said, obviously steering them away from a conversation an outsider like Karl shouldn’t witness.

Karl was curious, but knew it wasn’t really any of his business how the King of Ferelden had fallen in love with Lady Cousland. The grief still appeared fresh for all three of them, despite the passing of a decade. All he knew of the story was what traveling minstrels made up in their songs of the Hero of Ferelden and her life cut tragically short before she could become Queen. Back in Haven, Leliana had been very tight-lipped about all of her friends.

“Maybe if you asked nicer next time, Zev-ran, I would consider your offer of company.”

They shared the bittersweet smile of easy friends who’d seen some real shit together. It reminded Karl of Leo and he was suddenly lonely for him, even though he’d seen him yesterday and would travel with him today.

He hoped the meeting with the Chantry Mothers in Val Royeaux would end better than the Haven Conclave had.

At least there wouldn’t be any Templars there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karl’s Circle garden experience is alluded to at least twice elsewhere in this story, but I hadn’t planned to write a scene with Lance, until I had the inspiration during a writing sprint (a concentrated effort to write 1,000 words in an hour). If you’d like to try one and want to do it at the same time as other people, check out the [1k1h schedule](http://weekendwritingmarathon.tumblr.com/tagged/1k1h-schedule) hosted by Weekend Writing Marathon, or the tumblr blog [1k1h](http://1k1h.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Up next in Karl’s story: Chapter 10, Heretics and Friends


	10. Heretics and Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works), [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/works), and [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/works).
> 
> Content note: Karl is a survivor of child abuse and neglect. One of the ways his mother controlled him was with restricted access to food. This is a work of fiction; if you need help, please seek a licensed professional who is the right fit for you.

The rushed, choppy ship ride across the sea made it difficult for Leo to rest. And it definitely hampered his desire for food. He could comfortably sleep in Pepper’s saddle without falling off, but this manner of travel was misery. He curled up in his bunk, holding his stomach, eyes scrunched tightly shut.

“At least sip some water,” Karl said, raising a cup to Leo’s lips. Karl was annoyingly chipper and had eaten breakfast with gusto. “Can’t arrive at the Gallows dehydrated.”

“Thought we were going to Val Royeaux, not Kirkwall,” Leo mumbled, dribbling water down his chin. Karl gently wiped it away with a clean handkerchief and offered him another sip.

“It was a metaphor, Leo. The people we’re meeting aren’t our allies.”

Closing his eyes hadn’t helped. He wished his stomach would stop sloshing and brain could shake this fog.

“Want me to rub your back?”

“Will it help?”

“No idea.”

Leo shrugged and buried his face in the thin bunk mattress. Karl smoothed his hand across his shoulder blades in soft, rhythmic, circular motions that loosened the tension in his neck, and Leo managed to doze for the last hour or so of their journey.

-

Dorian’s first few steps off the boat were shaky, but he hid them well. At least he hadn’t been bent over a bucket like Karl’s brother had the whole trip.

The tall city gates and fearful looks of passersby soon made him forget his earlier discomfort and focus on more important matters. This wasn’t the Imperium. He was an apostate here. The utmost caution and charm would be required.

“My Lord Herald,” an Inquisition scout ran up and genuflected at Karl’s feet. “The Mothers await you—along with a great many Templars.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

Karl, Leo, and Varric cursed in quick succession.

“ _A great many Templars_ ,” the dwarf muttered. “If I’d known this would be another Kirkwall, I would have just gone home. Death and slaughter aside, I like it better there.”

“Perhaps I should have traveled incognito,” Dorian said to no one in particular. He refused to cower or hide his staff. He would follow Karl’s lead in diplomacy, but he would not apologize for who he was. “Fortunate for your Fade expert, he has the task of escorting the other mages back to Haven.”

Despite the new threat, Dorian would not have wanted to trade places with Solas. Babysitting despondent Circle mages on a long march was boring, and it would take him away from Karl, the only other person in the world who had seen what could have happened at Redcliffe.

 _Could have_. Dorian suppressed a snort. It _had_ happened for them. Thank the Maker they had this chance to prevent it from happening for everyone else.

He watched a flurry of emotions cross Karl’s face, fear and furious anger warring for dominance. Perhaps having him—a mage—at his side made Karl’s task harder. At least the Mothers wouldn’t recognize him as Tevinter.

“Have the Templars made an announcement?” Cassandra asked the scout.

“No, my lady.”

“Send a raven to Sister Nightingale,” Cassandra said. “She must know immediately if we are . . . delayed.”

Blinding sunlight glared off the white marble tiles and gold scrollwork of the Summer Bazaar. Perfectly pruned green vines hung from balconies and the tall blue doors were polished to a reflective sheen. The clean walkways couldn’t hide the stench from the docks, however. Dorian wrinkled his nose and pulled a mint-scented oil from his pouch to dab over the center of his moustache to mask the odor.

“Smells like fish,” Leo said. “Serves them right. Arsehole Orlesians don’t know how to do anything other than fight and pretend to be superior to everybody else. Hundreds of servants must spend all night, every night washing all this white.”

Interesting attitude for a future Bann. The elder Trevelyan seemed to share his brother’s concern for the underdog. It was a rather Fereldan attitude, even for a fiercely independent Marcher.

Dorian was relieved to see other Inquisition agents mixed in the crowd, dressed as Orlesians. In fact, they were so good at affecting the haughty Orlesian walk and contemptuous Orlesian expressions, he would not have guessed them to be Inquisition agents had he not seen them alongside the Spymaster in Redcliffe.

They skirted a giant column, the circumference as large as common man’s hut. In the center of the Bazaar was a disturbing sight: In the shade of an apple tree stood a high wooden stage under a horizontal beam, from which hung a hangman’s noose, gently swinging the breeze like a gruesome scarf.

“What’s with the gallows?” Leo asked.

“They’re expecting the heretic who murdered the Divine,” Karl said, infuriatingly calm.

“Herald, I’m sure that’s not true,” Cassandra said. “There would have to be an investigation, a trial—”

“ _Cass_ ,” Leo hissed, grabbing her arm. She frowned and looked down at his hand, but did not pull away or strike him. “Has your faith really made you so blind?!”

This was the first time Dorian had seen Leo treat Cassandra with anything other than the utmost respect.

Doubt crept slowly across her face and she rested her hand gently on his. “No, Leo. We will take precautions.”

Karl answered with a skeptical snort and green sparks shot down from his hand to smite the cobblestones. “Know this, Seeker: I will fight my way out of here if I need to.”

And Dorian would help.

He could probably just shout “I am a mage from Tevinter” and everyone would run away screaming—actually, the Templars probably would not, so best to abandon that idea.

“Let’s go.” Karl plowed forward, toward another, less grisly stage surrounded by women in white and red Chantry vestments.

It was as bad as Karl had said it would be. They hadn’t even reached the stage before a Chantry cleric jumped up and called them heretics.

“Good people of Val Royeaux!” The Trevelyans’ party was clearly not included in that group. The Revered Mother ranted about how naïve Justinia was, how Karl was a false prophet, and only the Templars could save “us all” from destruction.

“Holy shit, Mother Hevara’s freaking out. How did I ever think the Mothers were kind?” Leo asked Varric, while she angrily shouted herself hoarse.

“Just how rogue are the Templars?” Karl muttered. “They’re hunting mages, as the Chantry has always demanded they do. And the scout said there were some here . . .”

Cold fear ran through Dorian’s blood as a wave of power marched into the courtyard: At least twenty well-armored men and women wearing dour or outright hostile expressions, a flaming sword on their breastplates announcing their righteous purpose. Blessed Andraste, there was enough lyrium singing in the Templars’ veins to obliterate an entire city, a city as big as Minrathous.

As the soldiers tromped up and _over_ the stage, a Templar punched the raving Mother in the head, knocking her to the ground on his way past.

 _Had_ this been Minrathous, the Templar would have been a pile of ash before the priest hit the ground. No mage would have hesitated to end him.

But Dorian was a long way from home. Surrounded by enemies saturated with more lyrium than he could handle.

“What the fuck?” Leo lunged forward and Dorian helped Varric yank him back.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Karl demanded, green sparks radiating around his clenched fist at his side. Onlookers gave him fearful looks and stepped further back.

A pale, gaunt, gray-haired man at the front of the group answered with a sneer, “Her claim to authority is as insulting as your own. The Templars and Seekers did nothing wrong when we left the Chantry to _purge_ the mages.”

Dorian released Leo, ready to reach for his staff. But what could he do against so many?

“Then why did you come back here?” Karl asked.

“To see what frightens old women so, and to laugh. Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march.”

“Lord Seeker?” Cassandra stepped forward, anguished confusion clearly written on her face.

“You will not address me,” he said, without looking at her. “ _Traitor_.”

Her eyes widened in shock and the Templars marched away.

“You okay, Seeker?” Varric asked.

Cassandra shook her head. “This is bizarre. Lucius has always been known as a reasonable man. This grandstanding is not like him at all.”

Karl gave a skeptical snort.

Varric looked up at Cassandra. “If that’s the Lord Seeker, why aren’t there any other Seekers in this group? Unless they’d wear Templar armor?”

“No,” Cassandra said. “Everyone other than Lord Seeker Lucius has fresh lyrium in their veins. I can feel it.”

Varric shuddered. “Every time I think we’ve reached an understanding, you go and say creepy Seeker shit I haven’t heard before.”

“You can hear lyrium song, Cassandra?” Dorian asked. He had not ever heard of a non-mage who could do so.

“Yes. Like many Seekers and Templars, I can connect with it to incapacitate a mage, or Templar. Some can make it boil. I know of one who can use this skill to kill.”

Dorian regretted asking.

Leo grimaced. “That’s disgusting, Cassandra. Killing someone with their own blood.”

Karl crossed his arms over his chest and nodded in agreement. “So that’s Lucius Corin. You could kick his ass, Cassandra.”

If his nerves hadn’t been screaming about the imminent danger of their predicament, Dorian might have laughed.

“I suggested she do that very thing to his predecessor,” Leo said. “Maybe we should hightail it out of here before meeting any more—shit, that’s a messenger from Montsimmard, isn’t it? Those are Loyalist robes.”

A mage stood in front of the main gate, clearly looking for someone. He didn’t wear a staff, but he did wear finely-woven robes and appear unafraid, despite the massive group of Templars that had just passed him by.

“Fuck,” Karl muttered, dragging Leo behind a column. “Yeah, it’s Sean.”

Dorian hid in the shadows behind them. “And who might that be?”

“Personal assistant to Madame de Fer, _‘friend’_ of Lady Trevelyan. Vivienne and Mother are no more friends than Celene and Alistair are lovers.”

Leo choked at that, but his lips curved into a smile mischievous enough to belong to his younger brother. Perhaps the man was not as pointedly pious as Dorian had initially thought.

“Not even Leo will parley with her, if he can avoid it.”

Leo shrugged. “She’s too smart for me.”

“Too vicious, Leo, not too smart. You’re intelligent enough for the Game, but you don’t have a shark’s heart. Vivienne, however? She and Lady Trevelyan circle each other, waiting for first blood.”

That Dorian could believe.

Karl beckoned to an agent who wore a green scout hood of the Inquisition. “Mahon, right?” The agent nodded. “See to it that guy gets lost, but not hurt.” The agent grinned and melted into the crowd.

 _Fwwt_. Dorian’s heart leapt into his throat when an arrow zinged into the shadows where they hid and lodged itself into the dirt of a waist-high planter at Karl’s side. A scrap of parchment was tied to it with a red ribbon, its loose ends waving merrily in the breeze.

The Templars had left, but the Herald’s small party was still in danger of being shot in public—or worse. Dorian eyed the upper balconies, unable to find the source of the arrow.

“Well, this is interesting.” Karl plucked the arrow out of the flower bed and untied the parchment. “Looks like Dorian’s not the only one who sends love notes.” He didn’t seem to be flirting, but the comment still made Dorian’s nerves flutter with a different type of excitement altogether.

Leo frowned, Cassandra eyed Dorian and Karl speculatively, and Varric pulled a quill from his pocket. How the dwarf managed his inkwell on the fly without ever spilling it on his shirt was a trick Dorian could not figure out.

“Oh,” Karl chuckled. “Oh, this is good. There’s a clever rogue in this city I _have_ to meet before we go. We’re going on a scavenger hunt.”

Varric shrugged and put his quill away.

Cassandra looked perplexed. “But Herald—”

“Lead the way, Karl,” Leo interrupted her.

A scavenger hunt? Dorian had never been on one before, and he did not know if this particular hunt had anything to do with securing allies to help find the Elder One, but whoever had written that note had lit Karl’s eyes up with a joyous enthusiasm that made Dorian want to agree to anything he suggested.

“This way,” Karl said, heading for the nearest café. “And keep your eyes peeled for red handkerchiefs.”

-

Leo had less trouble than Cassandra remaining patient. If Karl wanted to climb balconies and search under tables for red handkerchiefs and scraps of paper scribbled with adolescent jokes until it was time to ride the tide out of Orlais again, that was fine by him. It made Karl happy.

“Last clue.” Karl unfurled the final scrap of parchment. “Ooh, a secret rendezvous at dusk in a private garden. Fodder for one of your stories, Varric?”

The dwarf shook his head. “I think that one’s been written a few times already.”

This game had taken a potentially dangerous turn.

“Karl,” Leo said, “It could be a trap.”

“Of course it could. Let’s spring it.”

Cassandra opened and closed her mouth a few times like a fish, then gave up with a disgusted groan. Dorian shrugged an elegant shoulder, but Leo could see he was wound tight, ready to jump to Karl’s defense.

It couldn’t be as bad as a Pride demon or city square full of rogue Templars, right? Might as well see this through.

They snuck between stately Orlesian gardens with high stone walls to the rendezvous point, where the blue door to a private courtyard swung open soundlessly at Karl’s touch.

They all ducked as a pair of fireballs flashed over their heads.

“ _Her-ald_ , of _An-draste_! How much did you expend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably.” A tan Orlesian mage in doublet and masque strut forward. Across the garden, a guard in blue uniform and full silver masque drew his sword.

“I don’t know who you are,” Karl scoffed. “I don’t _care_ who you are.”

“You don’t fool me. I’m too eem-port-tant for this to be an accident. My efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere.”

“Ahh!” the guard fell to his face, an arrow in his back.

A blond elf woman in short pants and a tight red tunic stepped from the shadows, aiming a shortbow. “Just say, ‘What.’”

“What is the—” the mage’s outraged question was cut short by an arrow through his mouth. When he hit the ground, it protruded from the back of his neck. Nasty. The shot was at a different angle than Lace would have used, but just as effective.

“Eww! Squishy one, but you heard me, right? ‘Just say “what.”’ Rich tits always try for more than they deserve.”

She walked over and pulled the arrow from his head with a disgusting squelch. “Blah, blah, blah. Obey me. Arrow in my face.

“See you followed the notes well enough—there are _two_ of you!” She tilted her head with a wide grin, fisted hands on her slender hips. She looked at their drawn rogue blades, shot a suspicious glance at Dorian’s staff. “All knifey shivdark, eh? At least you two aren't mage-y.”

Great, an arrow-happy elf who didn’t like mages. Just who they needed on a dark night in hostile territory.

“There are two of you!” She said again, and sniggered. “Bruhthers. Don’t suppose you have a sister?”

Karl smiled. “Sorry, no.”

“Too bad. If you did, I bet she’d be tall and . . . anyway.

“You’re the Herald of Andraste. You help the little people; I help the little people. Is he the same way?” She jerked her head at Leo.

The more she talked, the wider Karl’s smile became, and the more lost Leo got.

“Yes,” Karl said. “Absolutely.”

“Well, good then. I want to join.”

Karl offered her a half-bow. “Karl and Leo Trevelyan, Ser . . . ?”

She laughed, all nasally and staccato. “Not Suhr, Sera.” She jabbed a finger toward a pile of boxes. “This is cover, get ’round it. For the reinforcements. Someone tipped me their equipment shed. They’ve got no breeches.”

“What?” Leo asked, confused, but Karl chuckled and dragged him behind cover.

With alarmed shouts, pale white Orlesian men ran into the courtyard, brandishing swords and bows. They wore their plumed helmets.

But no pants.

Leo shook himself from his shock to parry a blade that was speeding toward his head. “Why didn’t you take their weapons?!” he shouted.

“’Cuz no breeches!” Sera and Karl answered together, laughing.

With Cassandra and Dorian’s help, it only took a few moments to defeat the scared, half-naked Orlesian guards.

Leo wiped the blood from his blades and sheathed them. He nodded his head sideways at Varric, who nodded in return and bent to check the bodies for identifying items, usable gear, and spare coin.

These poor, dead sods wouldn’t need it.

Dorian came to Leo’s side, eyes full of remorse. “Such a waste of fine young men. They were just protecting their master’s property. Unpleasant business, the whole thing.”

“Yeah.”

When it came to looting, Leo was less comfortable with the task than Karl, but the Inquisition needed every spare coin they could to feed the refugees, and Leo wasn’t about to balk at a little pick-pocketing from the dead. Before the Conclave, Leo had never gone to bed without supper. Karl had, and never complained about it.

The first time Karl had eaten a man-sized meal, he’d had stomach cramps for three days afterward and refused to let Leo take him to a healer because their mother might have found out he’d been sneaking food. No one should have to go through that. No one.

On the plus side, his brother didn’t look hungry now. He looked _happy_ , giggling with the trim, blonde elf girl who whispered in his ear like they were children making mischief.

Karl was _laughing_. Laughing like he hadn’t in months. Years.

Leo shook off his malaise-induced doubt, resolved to give this woman a chance.

She was grinning again, her voice loud off the stone walls of the nighttime garden. “So, Herald of Andraste, you’re a strange one. I want to join.”

“Sure!” Karl said. “The Inquisition would be delighted to have you, Sera. How would you like to help?”

Leo couldn’t follow everything she said about “little people” and “Red Jennies,” but Karl retained his amused smile.

“What about brothers from Montfort?” Leo asked Varric, who appeared to be following the conversation just fine.

“I’ll explain on the boat.”

“We’ve got transport,” Karl was saying.

“I’ve got mine covered.” Sera dumped a burlap sack at his feet and skipped off toward the garden gate. “See you in Haven, Herald! An’ Herald’s bruutha. This will be grand.”

“Oh!” She spun around with a parting question. “A’right my girl comes, too?” She sniggered and mumbled to herself, “Comes.” Her juvenile pun carried across the still air of the stone courtyard.

Leo wanted to ask “Who?” but Karl was already answering, “Bring anyone you wish, Serah Sera. Your friends are mine. Or should I say your _Friends_ are mine?”

“Brilliant!” She grinned. “You’ll luv ‘er. Well, that sour one,” she pointed at Dorian, “probably won’t, but she’s the best! Cheers!” And the elf disappeared through the gate.

Cassandra’s grunt could have been agreement or derision.

“Come, Herald,” Cassandra said. “We must return to Haven.”

Dorian brushed a speck of dust from his fine battle robes. He’d killed just as many guards as the rest of them, but had managed to avoid blood spatter. “Yes, I’d hate to arrive at Haven only to find the Red Jennies had arrived first, pilfered all the silver, and run off into the Breach-tinted sunset.”

“Dorian . . .” Karl heaved a sigh and closed his eyes.

“Yes, yes, my dear Lord Trevelyan. I will be welcoming to all your allies. I shall do my best not to be too ‘mage-y’ in the young lady’s presence.”

Karl chuckled and rubbed his hand over his eyes, shoulders drooping with fatigue. Dorian took a quick step forward, brow furrowed with concern, but quickly stopped himself, bringing up a façade of false cheer when Karl looked up again.

Leo couldn’t decide if he found Dorian’s interest comforting or inappropriate, but he would be forever grateful that Dorian had been at Karl’s side in Redcliffe.

Karl flung an arm over the mage’s shoulder. “Come on, Dorian. We best get back on the boat.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see what the young lady left for you?” Dorian poked at the sack with the blade of his staff and wrinkled his nose.

Karl opened the sack and laughed, pulling out a pair of wrinkled breeches. The bag was stuffed full of identical pairs. “Think Harritt will give me a fair price for these?”

“You want to drag a bag of Orlesian guards’ pants back to the Frostbacks?” Leo asked. They looked rather plain and worthless.

Cassandra gave another huff of frustration and Karl grinned.

“Well, the Seeker’s vote clinches it: We’re taking these back to Haven.”

-

Back at Haven, Harritt scowled at the bag of breeches but actually paid for them. Karl had trouble keeping a straight face during the transaction. His internal laughter died, however, when he met Sera and her “girl” at the tavern, and he realized these ladies might have some very specific, very volatile issues. In Orlais, he’d been so caught up in her laughter, he hadn’t paid much attention to her “mage-y” comment.

“Mages,” Sera plunked down into a chair and glared out the window toward Solas’ hut. “ _Elf_ mages.” She wrinkled her nose with a surly curl of her lip. “Just keep ‘em way from me, on the other side of camp.”

Well, fuck. His new elf friend didn’t like elves either. Varric and Cassandra were right: his luck was shite.

“They’re allies, sweetie.” The silver-skinned Qunari woman who sat down next to her was over seven feet tall, not counting the sleek, obsidian-black horns that rose up and back from her temples. Most of her long, inky-black hair was held in a single thick braid down her back. Riots of curled tendrils framed her face and neck.

“We’re safe with them.” She rubbed her left hand across the back of Sera’s shoulders in comfort and Sera uncrossed her arms. Still rubbing Sera’s shoulders, the Qunari offered Karl her other hand.

“Tama Adaar, my lord. A pleasure to meet you.”

Her handshake was firm and professional, with no malice. She turned to offer Leo a handshake as well. “And you. The Friends of Red Jenny stand ready to assist.”

“Yeah,” Sera sat forward, elbows on her knees. “I want to plug the sky-hole rubbish so I can go play. Tried puttin’ an arrow through it, but it dinnit come down. Weird, that is.”

“It is, dear,” Adaar said, still rubbing.

Something wistful twisted in Karl’s chest. The touch was so naturally given, and easily accepted.

Unbidden, an image of Dorian drifted across his mind, complete with clever long fingers and a knowing smile. He pushed the yearning away and focused on his potentially problematic friend who feared mages and hated other elves. Even without the Inquisition’s need for allies, he didn’t want to lose her.

“Can you handle fighting with a mage at your side, Sera?” Karl asked. “I can find other ways for you to help, but I travel with at least one mage, and I need to know.”

“Yeah, sure, Herald.” She winked, “But I won’t promise to behave.”

Karl wasn’t ready to breathe easy yet. “I know you’re uncomfortable with the free mages camped here. But we need them to close the Breach. After that, we’re looking for the person who killed the Divine.”

“Have you a suspect?” Adaar asked.

Karl looked around the tavern and lowered his voice. “A name we don’t fully understand, and it’s best not discussed here over a tankard.”

Adaar raised an eyebrow, but nodded her understanding.

“Pblllt,” Sera blew a raspberry, making Adaar smile fondly at her. “Names, schmames. Big friggin’ heroes, we are. Just point us toward the arsehole when the time comes and we’ll make ‘em bleed.”

“We will,” Adaar agreed, turning back toward the brothers. Her comforting hand stilled and her smile froze on her face, became brittle.

“If you’ll excuse me a moment.” Adaar didn’t wait for an answer, just rose from her chair, placed a brief kiss on the top of Sera’s head, and strode out of the tavern into the snow storm without a coat.

Sera sat up taller, looking out the window, and snorted happily. “Yeh might want to rescue your boyfriend, almighty Herald. My girl’s closing in.”

“My what?” Heart pounding harder than it had since the Pride demon at the temple, Karl jumped up and turned around to look.

“Sweet Andraste!” Leo exclaimed at his side. Tama Adaar stomped straight up the stone stairs toward Dorian, who was walking away from the apothecary, shoulders braced against the cold.

Karl raced after the Qunari, Leo close on his heels.

-

Apothecary Adan was a bit gruff, but Dorian had to appreciate how much he knew about herbs. And the Fereldan man hadn’t batted an eye when Dorian walked in. Just took one look at his congested, reddened nose and handed over a few health potions. The man had not spat at his feet or shied away from him.

“Don’t you worry, Sister,” Adan assured a worried cleric in faded Chantry robes. “We’ll get them back on their feet.” His voice drifted out the door into the snow and Dorian’s estimation of the man rose even higher.

He blinked furiously as fresh, frigid snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes. Just another few yards and he could hide away in his cabin with a roaring fire.

“What’s your purpose here, _Altus_?” A powerfully angry female voice made him stop short and look up. A Qunari in her full horned glory blocked the path at the top of the steps.

Thank the Maker she wasn’t wearing any armor; armor meant a Qunari intended to kill you outright.

Or forcibly convert you to the Qun. Or make you a mindless slave laborer with qamek poison.

Yes, indeed, whatever was he sticking around for, on a frozen mountain top with people who hated him? Not all of them, but . . . Gereon was in custody, the time travel pendant destroyed. With all the Fereldan mages he had recruited, Karl likely had no more use for Dorian.

Unbidden, the image of warm brown eyes and soft brown lips floated across Dorian’s memory. How Karl’s arm had felt like a blessed brand across his shoulders in that Orlesian garden where they had met Sera. Karl had called him a friend. How he ached to hold the man’s hand. Just once. It was unlikely to ever happen, and irrelevant.

Whatever the circumstances, he would not leave until Karl’s mission was done and Karl was safe from the Elder One. That is, if he survived this unexpected meeting.

Solas stepped from his cabin, staff in hand, glaring at the Qunari with even more menace than she focused on Dorian. That was one small mercy. Dorian wasn’t about to turn away the help.

Heart pounding, he straightened, careful to keep his hands in plain view and not reach for his staff. He did not bother to flirt. It would just get him killed.

“Good woman, I am Dorian of House Pavus, and serve the Herald of Andraste in his mission to close the Breach. I am not a member of the Magisterium.”

“Haha, _serve_!” Sera’s staccato laugh echoed up the steps from the frozen courtyard below.

The Qunari crossed her arms, lips twitching, but her frown did not completely fade. Solas did not relax his aggressive stance, yet she continued to ignore him.

Around her neck hung a subtle Silverite chain with a plain little gray rock as a pendant. It was much smaller than the rocks carried by Tevinter mercenaries, but it was just as dangerous.

The Qunari wore a mage binding stone. It did not technically “bind” you, of course—your soul was still your own—but it did drain all your mana if it touched you. Some stories claimed it caused mages blindness, too.

Fear clutched in Dorian’s chest, nearly cutting off his ability to draw breath. He stared at the stone, unable to move or speak.

“Hey, it’s okay, Pavus,” her voice gentled, like she was talking to a spooked horse. She uncrossed her arms and tucked the pendant inside her collar. “It’s not for you. Or anyone here. Just a little bit of protection for me.”

“Where,” the breath left his lips with no sound. “Where did you get it?”

The Qunari gave him a small, sad smile. “I didn’t steal it from a Tevinter, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s been passed down for generations. My mother gave it to me, before she went to the Conclave for the Valo-Kas.”

The mercenaries that had provided security, to make sure the Templars and mages didn’t go wild at the Divine’s sacred meeting.

“Justinia’s neutral security force. I am sorry for your loss.” The condolences automatically flowed from his lips, yet he found that he meant them.

It also made him wonder if he would be sad if his father had been at the Conclave. He was stricken to realize he did not know the answer.

“Thank you, Dorian. I am Tama Adaar, also an ally of the Inquisition.”

“You are Tal-Vashoth,” Solas announced angrily.

She turned her head and pierced him with a stare that would have made Dorian shiver in his finely crafted boots, had he not already been cold to the point of shaking.

“Vashoth.”

“Still too close to the Qun,” Solas sniffed.

“I shan’t judge you, little man, for the leather and bone around your neck indicate you are a wanderer. You probably convene with _‘wise spirits’_ in Fade forests and trickling little streams. One who has not had the opportunity to read must be pardoned for not understanding the finer nuances of those born free.”

Solas’ eyes bulged and his cheeks pinkened. As amusing as it was to see him bested by someone else, Dorian did not want to have a fight explode on his front doorstep.

“As loathe as I am to admit it, Mistress Adaar, Solas is well-read, in addition to holding the position of High Fade Expert for the Inquisition.”

Solas raised an eyebrow at the made-up title, but he did lower his staff.

Adaar chuckled. “Then perhaps I should join the two of you in the library this evening, if Haven has such a place.”

“Alas, no, dear lady, though I am certain the Ambassador would be happy to loan you something from the collection in her office.”

“I’ll see to it personally that you receive an invitation, Tama.” Karl’s rich baritone caressed Dorian’s ears and he looked up sharply to see the Trevelyan brothers standing on the top step, Sera just behind them. How long had they been listening? “Lady Montilyet will be thrilled by your interest.”

“Heh, heh, heh,” Sera sprang forward and grabbed the Qunari’s hand. “Tell Josie this one’s spoken for. Come on, I want some honey cider.”

The Qunari and elf walked down the stairs hand-in-hand.

“Nice to meet you, Dorian. Solas,” Adaar’s voice floated back over her shoulder.

Solas spun on his heel and went back into his cabin. He slammed the door, making Karl flinch.

“Leo?” the pained expression Karl gave his brother made Dorian want to wrap him in his arms.

“I’ll smooth things over with Solas. No worries. You two get inside, out of the snow.” Confident set to his shoulders, the elder Trevelyan knocked and was quickly invited in.

“Hey, Dorian,” Karl said. “Are you going to stare at Solas’ door until you’re an icicle, or shall we go in?”

“Oh, of course.” Dorian opened his cabin door and bowed Karl in with a flourish. “After you.”

Karl passed within inches of him. Dorian resisted the urge to touch his shoulder as he passed.

He closed the door on the wind and they were alone.

“Dorian, glad I caught you.”

“Glad I am to be caught.” He tipped his head suggestively, happy for the distraction, and even happier that it was Karl who provided the distraction.

Karl chuckled, then pursed his lips, as if he had forgotten what he had intended to say. “Uh . . .”

Dorian filled in the pause before it became awkward. “A little bird told me the Ambassador recruited a talented baker who crafts exquisite Antivan confections.”

Karl smiled. “Did this little bird wear a purple hood, and did she also tell you the Ambassador has a stash of Tevinter chocolates?”

“Truly?” Dorian forgot his flirty stance.

“Yes. Tell Josephine I asked about Embrium, and she’ll give you access.”

Dorian laughed. “Embrium. A password. For chocolates?”

Someone knocked urgently. “Herald,” a breathless messenger called through the door. It was warmer inside than out, but they still stood within a rickety wooden hut that let cold mountain air sweep through the cracks. Conversations could be overheard on both sides. “The Ambassador has news.”

“Thank you.” The irritated stiffness of Karl’s reply mirrored Dorian’s own feelings regarding the interruption.

“Yes, Ser!” the messenger called back. The snow crunched loudly under his boots as he ran off to his next assignment.

“Well,” Karl inhaled deeply in and out of his nose once. “Duty calls. See you at dinner with the others, Dorian? In the tavern around sundown?”

Dorian tried to avoid the tavern—too many suspicious stares there; too many dark corners where someone could stick a knife between a Vint’s ribs. It would be stupid to go.

 “Of course,” Dorian said. “I’ll be there.”

Karl’s brilliant smile stole Dorian’s breath away. After the charming rogue left, Dorian sat on the edge of the simple bed piled high with thick blankets, staring into roaring fire in the little hut’s large hearth.

“Maker, what have I agreed to?”

Filled with nervous energy, he jumped up and went out into the biting cold. He would take a chance on those Tevinter chocolates, and perhaps charm the Ambassador into loaning him a book. He needed something to distract him until dinner.

Dinner with Karl.

When he entered the chantry, the Ambassador was meeting with Karl and the other advisors. Dorian slipped into the shadows, eager for his first peek at the Inquisitions’ joint leadership.

Solas, still wearing his staff, leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed and face impassive as he observed the proceedings. He glanced briefly at Dorian, then resumed his bored observation of the people arguing in the middle of the room. The elf was clearly visible, but the others paid him as little mind as they did shadow-cloaked Dorian. For all their paranoia about mages, these Southerners could be rather unobservant.

Karl was holding together quite well, despite his reluctance to take the title Herald of Andraste. His advisors, however, might start a war of their own. Karl and the ex-Templar in charge of the Inquisition’s forces appeared close to exchanging blows.

“What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight?” The Commander clenched his fists. “The Veil is torn open. I know we need them for the Breach, but they could do as much damage as the demons themselves.”

“Are you fucking serious, Cullen?” Karl’s beautiful face contorted with rage. “You’re equating mages with demons? What about the damage the Templars did for years in Kirkwall? Slaughtering mages and dumping their corpses under the floor boards of seaside warehouses? Right under your fucking nose, Cullen. Did you really not know, or did you turn a blind eye?”

The Commander waved the argument aside. “You can't believe everything you read in a Tethras novel.”

“I didn't; I found other witness from Kirkwall. _Reliable_ witnesses.”

Cullen turned on Cassandra. “You were at Redcliffe, Seeker. Why didn't you intervene?”

“Closing the Breach is all that matters.” Cassandra bore his wrath with steady determination.

“The voice of pragmatism speaks,” Dorian said, stepping forward and leaning a shoulder on a column. “And here I was just beginning to enjoy the circular arguments.”

Cullen glared at Dorian, but refrained from speaking.

“Closing the Breach is all that matters,” Cassandra said again, pointing a gloved finger at the other two men. “You need to focus on that.”

Karl closed his eyes, reined in his temper. “Grand Enchanter Guerrin assures me the mages are ready. Cullen, can we march at dawn?”

The scowling ex-Templar bristled. “You brought Arl Eamon’s son here?! What were you thinking?!”

“Cullen, don’t start with me. The free mages are well organized with him; they don’t need additional oversight. And I need you to stop glowering, glaring, and growling at them, or we might as well give up and invite the demons in.

“I get it. You love the Chantry. But. Get. Your. Shit. Together. I march to close the Breach at dawn, with or without the troops you’ve pledged to me.” Karl stormed off.

The Ambassador had her hands over her mouth. The Spymaster stood behind her, lips twitching in quiet amusement.

The Seeker gave a disgusted grunt. “ _Are_ our troops ready?” she asked the Commander in the same tone she had used with the smuggler she had dressed down in front of the Redcliffe chantry.

The Commander cleared his throat and stood taller. “Yes, Seeker, a company of the most experienced, ready to mobilize with the sunrise.”

“Very well. I will see you at morning inspections.”

The Commander nodded and strode out past Solas with neither a glare, nor a fearful glance. Apparently, his distrust did not apply to those mages in his inner circle. Still, Dorian had no interest in becoming the confidant of the former Knight-Captain.

The Templars in Val Royeaux had been more than enough warning about the dangers of Southern Templars.

The Seeker went to talk with Mother Giselle, and the Spymaster followed the Ambassador into the Ambassador’s office.

Since he had neither been invited anywhere, nor forbidden to go anywhere, Dorian went in search of Karl.

-

Karl stormed out of the chantry, past the requisitions table, down both sets of stone stairs, and out onto the snowy campground overlooking the frozen lake. The wind bit his ears. He was so mad, he wondered if the ice would melt into a sudden boil if he stepped onto the lake.

The familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of three throwing knives thrown in quick succession drew him to Cassandra’s practice dummies, where Leo practiced alone. All the other soldiers gave Leo a wide berth, sparring with each other and leaving the entire row of dummies to him.

“Cute mage, that Tevinter,” Leo said casually.

“He’s more than a moustache.”

“Yeah, we’d probably all be dead or in red-lined torture chambers by now, if not for him.” Leo balanced a throwing knife over his index finger like a scale, twisting his wrist to make it tip back and forth, playing with the weight, testing the balance. He paused, standing stock still to watch Lace Harding unload a cart with supplies from the Crossroads.

“How did it go with the advisors?”

“Even worse than expected.”

Leo grunted in response and turned back to his practice, throwing a knife smack into a dummy’s eye. “Not much of a challenge if they’re standing still.”

“I doubt any breathing person would let you chuck knives at their face. And you’re too nice to kill nugs you don’t need for food.”

“Yeah. That’s me: ‘nice.’”

Leo looked back over at the blacksmith’s forge. Lace put a reassuring hand on Harritt’s arm.

The memory of her final, bold charge on the terror demon flashed across Karl’s mind, and he had to take a few deep, steadying breaths. It hadn’t happened. Even though it had, for him. There had been only two good things in that red-tainted nightmare: How Leo had looked at Lace, and Dorian at his side.

“You okay?” Leo asked.

“Yeah,” Karl lied. “Here,” he pulled a pouch off his belt and tossed it to his brother, who deftly caught it one-handed, still playing with the knife in his other. “Some runes I salvaged. Go ask Scout Harding if she knows of crafters who can copy them.”

“As you wish.” Leo gave him a droll look and pulled his knives out of the dummies. “Hey, Dorian. Think you can keep my brother out of trouble for five minutes?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dorian quipped, striding toward them with confidence.

Leo laughed and headed for the forge.

Karl’s breath caught in his throat and his heart hammered like Harritt’s weapon smiths. Damn, had he been that gorgeous ten minutes ago? Olive-bronze skin, sleek moustache, the sculpted body of someone who regularly practiced his battle spells with his whole body. He _knew_ what it felt like to be in Dorian’s arms, fight alongside his power. But that had been desperate necessity.

He had no idea what Dorian truly thought of him.

-

Dorian liked the way Karl watched him approach. Was there perhaps a bit of yearning along with that curiosity?

“Not very subtle of you, pushing those two together.” Dorian leaned one shoulder on a practice dummy, crossing one of his ankles over the other.

“Heh,” Karl scoffed. “If you’re subtle, Leo pretends to not understand. Leliana’s sending Lace off to the Storm Coast tomorrow. You have to grab the chance when you can.”

“I agree.”

They watched Leo dump the contents of the purse out on top of one of Harritt’s wooden crates and start a spirited discussion with the blacksmith and scout, with lots of broad gestures on Harritt’s part. With a wide smile, the dwarf pulled parchment, ink, and quill from a travel bag and began drawing in swift, bold strokes.

Karl turned to face him. “But you don’t have that problem, Dorian.”

“Oh?” Dorian raised an eyebrow and Karl smiled.

“You don’t bother with that kind of pretense at all. It’s refreshing.”

“Herald—” it was that same damned messenger who had pounded on his door earlier. He ran as if his ass was on fire. If the twit did not soon learn how to not interrupt at key moments, Dorian might very well set his pants on fire. Just for a moment. He would put it out right away, of course, not injure him. Sometimes the best lessons were practical demonstrations.

Karl held up an index finger. “In a minute,” he said sternly. The messenger looked properly chastised and took a step—only one—backward to wait quietly.

Karl didn’t bother to hide his sigh. “Dorian, we still on for dinner at the tavern?”

“Certainly, Lord Trevelyan.”

“It’s Karl, Dorian.” He smiled. “I’ll see you then.”

The messenger’s eyes widened and Dorian bit back a groan. The seeds of scandal were planted.

Dorian watched Karl walk back toward the village gate, his stride a bit less purposeful than it had been whilst they walked Redcliffe together. As he passed by the horse pen attached to the blacksmith’s workshop, his brother raised his head with an inquiring look. Karl waved him off and kept walking.

Alone.

He thought him refreshing. It certainly was not a compliment Dorian had received before. Had Karl been about to flirt with him? He dearly hoped he would have another chance to find out.

-

Leo had gotten distracted oiling his riding gear, so he was the last one to hit the tavern for dinner. Lace was laughing at some joke Sera had just told, sitting with the elf and Qunari at a corner table. Varric was leaned over a table in the middle of the room, captivating two of Leliana’s agents with some bullshit tale about The Champion. Leo snickered; he’d heard three versions of it already, all of them likely false.

Leo’s smile faded when he caught view of his brother and Dorian sitting at the table behind Varric. They both had their elbows on the table, leaning forward with angry scowls, deep in an argument.

He should have just eaten hay in the barn with Pepper.

Karl’s voice rose enough to be heard from the door. “You’re saying they _like_ it that way? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“What I am saying is a slave can live quite comfortably, even raise a family. It is certainly better than living in an alienage.”

They lapsed into tense, simmering silence.

Leo suppressed a sigh and made for their table. Maybe he could redirect the conversation.

“True, some have been treated poorly in other households, but my family—”

“Treated poorly?! People aren’t property.”

Leo stepped forward, “Mind if I join you?”

“Here, Leo, you can finish my pint. I have three contracts Josephine wants done tonight.” Karl slid his mug toward him, plunked a gold piece on the table, and left without a farewell, his jaw set like it always was when he was on the verge of tears. Their mother would be appalled. Tears were for the lower classes.

The last three years had wrenched a lot of tears from Leo, too.

Damn war.

“Should I have let you two finish?” Leo asked, slipping into Karl’s seat and taking a sip from his mug. The ale was just the right amount of bitter and Karl had salted it to tame the foam.

“Can you imagine the financial meltdown?” Dorian asked poking the tabletop with an elegant finger. “It is not the magisters who would suffer. Certainly, they would be temporarily inconvenienced, but the most powerful would quickly take control of everything. The poorest always suffer the most.”

“Karl would rather have anarchy than oppression, Dorian. He will not compromise when it comes to freedom.”

“And you? How does the elder Trevelyan view this problem?”

He wished he’d had some solid food in his belly before diving into this conversation. “Slavery is wrong, Dorian, but I don’t know how to fix it.”

Varric leaned back on the rear two legs of his chair, and spoke over his shoulder. “Maevaris Tilani might.” His front chair legs clacked on the floor as he leaned forward again and returned to his conversation with Leliana’s agents as if he’d never left it.

Dorian blinked, clearly taken aback by the interruption, then looked around the pub as if he’d just realized he was in a public place.

“He thinks he _has_ to fix it. Give him space,” Leo said. “He’ll come around. Wait, you know what, Dorian? Don’t give him space. I haven’t seen him interested in a man in a long time. Go for it.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Pfft, sure you don’t.”

Leo took another sip. Yes, it was just the right amount of bitter. “I’m going to go order some stew. Would you like a bowl?”

“Thank you, no, my lord. I have supped and I believe I shall retire now, so that I am ready for the dawn march on the Breach. That is . . .” His hesitation wrenched Leo’s heart; he knew that scared look, from someone familiar with rejection. Karl had worn it for the first half of his life. “If you would like my assistance in tomorrow’s endeavor?”

“He wants you there, Dorian. I promise.”

Dorian bowed and left, head held high. No one harassed him on the way out.

Leo took his tankard and sat at the counter up front. “Evening, Flissa.”

“My lord.” The red-headed proprietor smiled brightly. “Whut kin I get ya?”

“A bowl of that fantastic-smelling stew, please.” He nodded at the large black pot bubbling over the fire.

She dished him up a generous helping and set a piece of fresh bread next to it. He stirred the stew and found vegetables mixed in with the meat.

“Bread _and_ carrots? How did this miracle come to pass?”

“One of The Grand Enchanter’s mages is a fine baker, and brought starters from Redcliffe. The mages also brought along vegetables on their wagons. And two of the young ones came in here, brother and sister, hanging onto Master Tethras, chattering away like magpies. ‘Connor can make dead soil grow crops again. He can even grow food in a window box in winter,’ the lass said. ‘Connor can hear blood song,’ her brother said, not to be outdone. All afternoon. It was a fine bit ‘o sunshine for our hearts, my lord, having those bright children here in this dark winter. A fine distraction from the Breach.”

“So, everyone’s been mannerly in the tavern?” Leo took a bite and burnt his tongue, but it was worth it. The hot gravy and chunks of ram meat chased away the winter chill that seeped around the window sills. It had more kick than usual plain black pepper; maybe they’d confiscated some Tevinter spices from Magister Alexius, along with his staff. Leo greatly approved.

“Well, Master Tethras did escort out a drunk Templar who got a bit fresh with me, but the good knight seemed sorry, my lord.”

He would wager a full bag of gold pieces that Varric had secretly held a knife to the man’s balls to get that apology. Too bad he’d missed it.

“An’, beggin’ your pardon, but you did ask; your good lord brother, the Herald, had a bit of a row with the Tevinter mage. You saw the worst of it, my lord. But they both really are the most gentle of nobles, and very generous with their coin.”

She hesitated. Leo took another bite of stew to give her a chance to continue at her own pace.

“They will be all right, won’t they, the Herald and Lord Pavus?”

“Yes, Flissa. They exchanged some heated words, but they’re still friends.”

“Oh, good, I thought they were—I mean, they are lovely together—I mean, oh, Maker.” She blushed and looked away, wiping furiously at an already-clean spot of the counter with a cloth.

Her concern warmed him as much as her stew. “It’s okay, Flissa. I think so, too.”

She smiled brightly at him, then frowned. “Do be careful tomorrow, my lord. The last time you tried to close the Breach, you had to fight a Pride demon. With all those mages and all their mana—who knows what you’ll face in the morning.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mage binding stones were something I introduced in Stella and Rollie’s story, [Enchant My Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5637895) (my [Beyond Circle, Beyond Order](http://archiveofourown.org/series/368558) series).
> 
> THANK YOU to [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works) for suggesting the word “dab,” to [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/works) for calling Dorian “poncy,” and to [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/works) for flagging continuity issues.  
>    
> Up next in the Trevelyan brothers’ adventure: Chapter 11, No Safe Haven


	11. No Safe Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, SnuggleBonnet and [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd).
> 
>  

Karl lay still, listening to his brother’s peaceful, even breathing, in the little double bed they shared in their drafty cabin.

He was so mad, he couldn't sleep. Not angry with Dorian—not anymore—but angry at himself for his own outburst and storming out of the tavern. Dorian had saved the _world_ back in Redcliffe, and Karl had practically accused him of being a Monster Magister who didn’t see people as people.

Dorian’s anguish had been clear in his eyes while they argued, though Karl doubted anyone else would have bothered to look past his Tevinter robes and frown: Since coming South, Dorian had _seen_ the bitter poverty of slums and alienages—how he’d ended up there, Karl had no idea, and had been too blockheaded to ask—and Dorian didn’t want the lower classes of his own homeland to suffer so.

He didn’t lay awake because of the upcoming march on the Breach; he was as ready for that as he could be. A _man_ made him sleepless. Not because some steamy wet dream had woken him, but because he _cared_ that he’d hurt his feelings. He couldn’t recall anyone making him sleepless since Ostwick.

Since leaving home all those years ago, Karl could usually sleep anywhere. He traveled. A lot. He didn’t travel with a nobleman’s amenities, and when you only had four or six hours until it was your turn on the watch, you learned to grab every second of sleep possible. He slept better in the open wilderness with pacifist apostates watching his back than he ever had in his parents’ house.

Sleep deprivation made people make stupid mistakes. It made you slow, foggy. But one night wouldn’t make a seasoned fighter worthless. Best to do something with his frustrated energy.

Disgusted with himself, Karl threw off the blankets and got up.

“Shit, man,” Leo hissed sleepily, hunching his shoulders and burrowing his face deeper in his pillow, “at least tuck your side in, if you’re getting up.”

“Sorry,” Karl couldn’t help the little smile that broke through his foul mood as he tucked the blankets in. Leo hadn’t complained once about anything: not the small quarters or shared sleeping arrangements, or traipsing all over the Hinterlands and Val Royeaux, or being relegated to his brother’s shadow. Not even the food. Duty done at the Conclave, he could have gone home to Mother, a valet, and sweet meats prepared by a real chef.

“Need something?” Leo asked.

“Just to move around. You go ahead and sleep.”

Leo pulled the thick quilt over his head and his next words came out muffled. “Wake me if you’re going to do any heavy lifting. Or demon fighting. Avoid Templars, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

Karl dressed in his full gear, including the leather armor and dual blades he planned to wear for the march on the Breach. Then he quickly opened the door just enough to squeeze through sideways and shut it to trap their little fireplace’s heat in with Leo.

The dark night was tinted a poisonous green by the swirling Breach. The wind hadn’t stopped its incessant tear over the mountain, and the rush of sound was even more annoying than the cold biting his ears. He yanked the knit cap Varric had given him from his pocket and pulled it on.

The lights were still on in the tavern, but he didn’t want to see more of those worried glances Flissa had sent his way all through dinner. Karl bared his teeth in a vicious smile: He _had_ enjoyed watching Varric escort out a handsy Templar. A candle burned in Adan’s window—one always did, at all times of day—but the apothecary, if awake, didn’t need Karl in his way. He’d rather wake a rabid wolf than risk waking Solas. And Dorian’s cabin—

No, it was the chantry, of all places, he headed toward. It was the only shelter in Haven where he _might_ be left alone in peace. How was that for irony?

Inquisition guards moved quietly up and down the paths in small groups with purposeful strides, and a low horn, its call quickly eaten up by the louder wind, sounded from the front gates of the village to announce the start of the midnight watch.

Karl paused by Leliana’s tent, surprised to see about a dozen people congregating out front of the chantry. Some of them were dwarves. He had thought Lace and Varric were the only dwarves in the village. This group had a handful of pack horses with them.

Josephine stood in front of the doors, bundled up in thick layers against the cold, clipboard in hand.

Karl moved in for a closer look. It appeared the Ambassador had secured a lyrium source for their new mage allies.

“Sorry about the delay, Ambassador Montilyet,” a clean-shaven dwarf at the front said. His square, fair face and round nose were ruddy and wind-burnt, along with his ears. He wore no hat, nor did the two dwarves at his side. His auburn hair was done up on top of his head in a complicated braid like Lace’s. “Some Templars tried to intercept your shipment.”

Rogue Templars here, in the Frostbacks? Worry twisted in Karl’s chest.

“Oh, dear,” Josephine said. “Was anyone in your party injured, Master Cadash? We have several talented healers in Haven.”

“No, my lady. Thank you for your kind concern.” He bowed with a flirty smile, “And please, call me Cappi.”

The lady dwarf at his side gave an amused scoff at his forwardness. She had a heart-shaped face miraculously untouched by wind and weather and her chin-length hair was so blonde it was almost white.

Cappi grinned. “Ambassador, may I introduce my sister and brother? Shiva and Ifrit of House Cadash.”

The third dwarf had the same round nose as the other two, and was built like a thick square brick with jutting chin, just as Cappi was, but his clean-shaven face and scalp were as brown as Leo’s.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Josephine said.

“My lady,” they answered in unison and bowed.

“We left the guards and wagons down at the stables,” Cappi said. “Shall we unload these crates here and store them in the chantry? Then perhaps you would like to meet with us in your office.”

Josephine’s relieved smile spoke volumes about how glad she would be to get in out of the cold. “That would be excellent, thank you. I have some Antivan coffee, if you all would like to warm up?”

“Antivan coffee?” The stoic brother perked up. “That sounds amazing.”

Cappi beckoned a young human man to his side. A bodyguard, perhaps? He was slightly shorter than average, with a lean, clean-shaven face, his brown hair shaved short along the sides and left full on top. He was slight, but powerful, judging by how naturally he walked in heavy armor with embellished brown leather details. He wore a heavy broadsword on his back.

The rest of the Cadash team started unstrapping crates and bags from the horses.

“Ah, Herald!” Josephine called out, as if she’d just noticed him, but he was certain she’d known he was there the entire time. Ambassador Josephine Montilyet missed nothing. Ever. Woe to the unprepared rival who dared question her. “Would you like to join us?”

Of course he would. These visitors would be interesting even if they hadn’t had news about Templar raids.

It was rather crowded in Josephine’s office, with three humans and three dwarves, but no one seemed to mind. The Ambassador cheerily hung a kettle over the flames of her fire and invited them to sit on wooden benches to warm their hands near the hearth.

Once everyone was settled with a steaming mug, Cappi nodded toward the quiet human he’d brought along. “This is Cremisius Aclassi. We picked him up on the march here. Pretty good in a fight, lovely manners, keeps his gear clean.”

“Careful, Cappi,” his sister said, “or the Herald will think you’re here for betrothal negotiations.”

Her brothers chuckled, Josephine smiled, and Aclassi bowed from his seat. “It’s an honor, Your Worship.”

“What brings you to Haven?” Karl asked.

“I hear the Inquisition’s doing good work.” Aclassi looked him straight in the eye with a steady stare that indicated more information would not be forthcoming while they had an audience.

Karl turned to Cappi. “Tell me about these Templars that tried to raid your shipment.”

The dwarves’ smiles vanished and Aclassi’s expression turned grim.

“Some of their faces weren’t recognizable as faces,” Cappi said quietly. “Their armor was covered in spikes of red lyrium.”

The rest of the meeting went downhill from there. Karl was the first to leave, his mind full with images of the terrifying red spear that had killed Fiona in Redcliffe. He tried Dorian’s breathing exercises while he walked, which kept him moving forward, but the panic would not leave him.

“Your Worship.” Aclassi had followed him out. “I’ve come to Haven with a message for you.”

Karl forced himself to focus on the other man’s words. He did have responsibilities beyond the horrifying fate of the Templars. “Go ahead.”

“Cremisius Aclassi, with the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company. We mostly work out of Orlais and Nevarra. We got word of Venatori forces gathering out on the Storm Coast. My company commander offers the information free of charge.”

More Venatori. The last one Karl had met had forced him through a time rift. A wave of fear rose in his throat and Karl tucked his hands into his jacket pockets to hide his trembling fingers.

“Iron Bull wants to work for the Inquisition. We’re loyal, we’re tough, and we don’t break contracts. Ask around Val Royeaux. We’ve got references. If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us work.”

Karl had heard of the Chargers. Last year he’d gone as Leo’s bodyguard to some ridiculous party in Val Royeaux, where three ladies and a Duke had practically shoved Bull’s calling card down his pants. The Iron Bull was a Qunari—an enormous man with horns—and his second-in-command was ex-military— _Tevinter_ ex-military. That kind of perspective might be useful against the Venatori, but he didn’t have time to consider it now.

“Sorry,” Karl shook his head and pointed toward the scarred heavens. “Much as we’d appreciate the help, I am this close to closing the Breach. I can’t run off to the Storm Coast. After it’s closed, if you’re still interested in lending aid, we can discuss your captain’s terms. The Divine’s murderer is still at large, possibly planning another attack like the Conclave explosion.

“Wait.” Karl pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, thinking as fast as he could. “Go back inside and talk to the Ambassador. Whatever she and the Spymaster need, you can consider your audition.”

The young man smiled. “You are deserving of your reputation, my lord. The good parts, that is.”

-

Dorian sat in his lonely guest bed on a frigid mountaintop, trying to read one of the Ambassador’s books on Southern Templar battle tactics. He was fully clothed, except for his armor, which sat by the fire on the hut’s only chair, plus he wore an extra robe and had pulled both spare blankets up over him. His nose was cold, but the rest of his body he could almost pretend was comfortable.

It was his mind, however, that kept him awake. He had been rather snide with Karl at dinner and quite possibly ruined their friendship. If he had wanted any more than friendship with the man—Who was he kidding? _If?_ —that was likely another shattered dream as well.

A frantic pounding on his door startled him and he dropped the book. Heart thundering, he untangled himself from the blankets as fast as he could and rushed to open the door.

Karl stood there in full armor, panting, eyes wide with terror.

Dorian grabbed Karl’s arm. “Amatus, what is it?”

“I was too late. I took too long.” His voice held that same hollow horror he had shown a few times in Redcliffe. “The world will fall anyway because I didn’t march soon enough.”

Well, that was cryptic and alarming.

Dorian dragged him in, closed the door, and led him to the only chair in the room, shoving his armor unceremoniously off it onto the floor so Karl could sit. He knelt before him, hands firm on his forearms. “Tell me.”

“I should have closed the Breach sooner. Stopped him sooner. I shouldn’t have agreed with Leliana, back at Redcliffe, to wait for reconnaissance. Why the fuck did I waste time in Orlais? There are Red Templars on the mountain, harrying our lyrium suppliers.”

“Fasta vass,” Dorian cursed and squeezed Karl’s arms tighter. The news was troubling, but it certainly was not Karl’s fault. “No, if they’ve been fully corrupted already, it had to have started _before_ the Conclave. Karl, there is nothing we could have done.”

Even if the amulet hadn’t been destroyed, the fabric of time was so damaged at the Temple it wouldn’t allow them to go back beyond the Conclave explosion. Thank the Maker for that; if it had been possible, Gereon would have succeeded and Redcliffe would have been their end.

“You—you’re right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have woken you.”

“You can wake me any time. Every day, if you wish.” He hadn’t realized he’d leaned closer, practically whispering, like a lover in the dark, until he saw Karl watching his lips with an intense focus that made his loins stir. He looked into Karl’s warm brown eyes, drawn by his heat.

No, it would be wrong to take advantage of him like this, when he was so upset. Especially since they hadn’t discussed . . . he didn’t know what the expectations would be.

Dorian averted his eyes and slowly stood, taking a casual step backward and sitting on the floor in front of the fire, legs crossed. “I am amazed by how quickly you have mobilized everyone, in fact,” he said. “Recruiting the free mages was a fine idea. The Guerrin lad will be an excellent asset tomorrow. His control of mana is some of the finest I have seen.”

Karl slid off the end of the chair and sat on the floor across from him, neatly erasing the distance Dorian had carefully put between them. “That’s good. I don’t want my Marked hand blowing up in my face when his people channel all that mana into me.”

Dorian had to make concentrated effort not to flinch at that image. “He is powerful. Surprisingly so. Yet he appears to be hiding most of his inner talent from even his own followers. Solas has noticed as well. The hobo apostate actually spoke to me civilly about it.”

In fact, the two of them had agreed that, if not for Karl’s Marked hand, and the Elder One’s obsession with him— _and_ the South’s ridiculous prejudice against mages—Connor would have been a better choice to fight the Elder One.

Karl nodded. “It makes sense that he wouldn’t want to give the Chantry or Templars more reason to hunt him, but, if he’s in the habit of hiding some of his magic, why would he lower his guard around you and Solas? He doesn’t have any reason to trust you like I do.”

“I think he wants us to know, so we hesitate to challenge him. He is responsible for the lives of many other people now, after all. He needs to appear invulnerable in order to protect them.”

“Honestly, I don’t know that I could defeat him. I have age and a few ‘Vint’ tricks on my side, but the Grand Enchanter has a deep wealth of natural power. Had he been born in the Imperium, he would be a Magister by now, young as he is, had someone else not cleverly assassinated him in the cradle first.”

“Do you think Fiona knows?”

“She does not appear to; which is a mystery, because she is a powerful mage herself. Should she not be able to at least sense his mana reserves, if not the full extent of his talents? Then again, she may be overcautious with the Arl’s son because there is still a bit of slave left in her. That may be why she succumbed to Alexis’ ‘help.’”

Dorian hesitated a beat. “I apologize for my harsh words back in the tavern, by the way. I do not intend to be a bully.”

He didn’t mention Varric’s suggestion. He wanted to talk with the dwarf more first, and write Maevaris. She had ways for Dorian to contact her without his father intercepting the messages. Maybe he could find some way to help the disadvantaged people Karl so passionately cared for. Maybe then he would be worthy of how Karl looked at him.

“It’s okay, Dorian. _I_ was the asshole who didn’t stick around to talk it out. I won’t hold you responsible for the entirety of an ages-old culture. Nor the behavior of everyone in your homeland. You can’t change something that big with just a wave of your hand. I don’t want to burden you with that responsibility. I don’t want to burden you at all.”

Karl lay a reassuring hand on Dorian’s knee and Dorian suddenly felt too hot under his extra layers of clothes. The ice-cold floor he sat on ceased to exist.

“You are never a burden.” He couldn’t make a joke of it, but he managed to keep his voice from trembling. Karl was the brightest light he’d ever seen. A giver of himself who somehow survived instead of being crushed. He was everything the storybooks promised, only _real_. He could be infuriating and sweet . . .

And Dorian was letting his vivid imagination get him into trouble. The eve of a potentially dangerous mission was a particularly bad time to throw himself at the Herald of Andraste.

“In fact,” Dorian said, “I had hoped you could spare a few moments to talk.”

Karl’s answering grin made his heart race. “Oh, I think we have longer than that.”

-

Before dawn, Lead Scout Lace Harding met the Nightingale at the stables for last-minute instructions about the Storm Coast. The moon looked green in the bright glare of the Breach, and the fresh snow reflected it like a thousand demonish mirrors. It may have been an unsettling light, but light was light, and there was enough of it that they could set out immediately, hours before Karl would revisit the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Officially, Lace’s mission was to scout for signs of Venatori, Red Templars, and rifts. Unofficially, Leliana was desperate for news of the Grey Wardens, and there were rumors that some had recently camped on the Storm Coast.

Leliana had also briefed her on the mercenary representative who had shown up during the night. His appearance and timing were fortuitous, to say the least. Lace didn’t believe it a coincidence any more than Leliana did, and attentively listened to everything the Spymaster could tell her about the Bull’s Chargers.

“Let him know that we know about them,” Leliana said. “Plant the seeds that will make him slip up, share information. Whatever intelligence you deem safe sharing, I trust your judgement.”

Leliana’s lips suddenly turned up into a small smile. “I believe you have no more need of me today, Scout Harding.”

Lace turned to see what had amused the Spymaster so. Leo strode toward them through the fresh snow.

“Maker guide your steps,” Leliana said, and headed for the chantry.

“Lace.” He spoke with a quiet respect that was more suited to a chapel than greeting an agent. She hadn’t been _that_ helpful during their chat with Harritt yesterday afternoon.

“Good morning, Leo.”

His low chuckle was enticing. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“True.”

“I have a gift for you.” He pulled a small gold object from his pocket and handed it to her. “For when the sun and stars don’t cooperate—I mean when it’s too overcast to navigate a new place.”

It was a compass with a gold lid that shut on a single hinge; intricate scrollwork etchings flowed across the front and back, with a prancing horse engraved in the center of the front, and it hung on a gold chain that could be secured to a belt. The needle moved smoothly when she turned herself in various directions.

What a sweet, sweet man. It was the most thoughtful and appropriate gift she’d ever received. Actually, most of the men she’d met didn’t bother with gifts. They went straight to, “You’re the rugged type, right? How about a roll in the hay?” Not that Leo had indicated he was interested in a physical relationship. He was helpful to everyone, and, before this moment, it could have been her imagination that he was a little more interested in her comments than other people’s.

Inside the compass’ upper lid was an inscription. Lace read it aloud:

“ _For my beloved Clara, so that you may always find your way home_.” She looked up and Leo smiled.

“My grandmother. She was an adventurer, just like you.” He frowned. “Sorry, would you have preferred a new one?”

“No, this is perfect.” It was overwhelming, actually. A human noble she’d only known a few short weeks had given _her_ a family heirloom. As a gift. To keep as her own. What would his family think?

“Good morning, my lord.” Ava hadn’t let a single footstep of her approach be heard. Lace wasn’t used to Ava surprising her like that. What was she up to?

“Scout Ava.” Leo nodded politely.

“Mythal’enaste.” Ava bent on one knee to hug Lace and kiss her cheek. “Go ahead and kiss him already,” she whispered.

Lace answered with a disapproving grunt.

“I’ll only be a day behind you,” Ava said loud enough for Leo to hear, and headed back to the village proper. She’d catch up before they reach the Storm Coast.

Lace held the compass to her chest, over her heart. “It’s beautiful, Leo. Thank you.” She stepped forward and gave him a one-armed hug around his waist.

His intake of breath sounded as astonished as she had felt when he’d given her the compass.

Then the representative of the Bull’s Chargers arrived, along with the last of the Inquisition scouts and soldiers assigned to Lace’s small, swift party, and there was no time for private words.

For the rough trip down the mountain—Lace would take the fastest route, not the smoothest—all the horses were loaded with their gear, so each animal had a lighter load. She and her agents would walk for the first leg of the journey. Once they were on more friendly terrain, everything would be moved to the pack horses and they could ride.

She took hold of her mount’s lead rope, waved goodbye to Leo, and headed for the Storm Coast, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach that told her to stay. She had her orders, and Leo and his brother could handle anything until she saw them again.

Cremisius Aclassi walked at her side, though she wouldn’t need him to lead them until they got closer to the Chargers’ camp. That was fine with her: She could keep an eye on him and start “planting the seeds,” as Leliana had said.

She had to carefully watch her step on the rocky slope, find the least steep and most stable footholds for people and horses alike, so her eyes were busy, but she could listen to the mercenary’s tone, learn from his hesitations and word choices.

“Do you go by ‘Cremisius,’ Lieutenant?”

“The Chief calls me ‘Krem,’” he answered with obvious fondness for his commanding officer, “and the Chief’s nicknames usually end up sticking, so I’m comfortable with that.”

“You said there are rifts on the coast?”

“Yes, Ser. And a dragon and giant, but those two are easy to avoid. It’s the demons from the rifts that are the most pressing problem at the moment, aside from the Venatori’s red lyrium shipments. Their security is heavy, and at least half of them are seasoned battle mages.”

Lace had seen exquisitely drawn maps of Minrathous, but not read up on the Imperium’s military. Now that they knew they were dealing with a Tevinter cult, she might have to do that.

“Red lyrium?” she asked. From what Leliana and Varric had told her, that was as alarming at the Breach.

“We haven’t found _where_ they’re stockpiling it once it reaches the Coast.”

“I can.” She was dead certain. “Let’s get that and the rifts mapped for the Herald as soon as we arrive.”

“You’re going to go _find_ them; search out rifts without the Herald?” His question was equal parts admiration and apprehension. “How?”

“Very carefully, Lieutenant. You’re welcome to try to keep up, if your captain wants you with my group.”

“I can keep up.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Lace dropped the biggest question. She took her eyes off the trail long enough to watch his reaction.

“So . . . Ben-Hassrath.” It was a calculated risk letting the spy know that they knew, and Leliana had instructed her to drop this particular piece of intelligence on day one.

“Pardon?”

He didn’t blink or falter in his pace. She would have missed his brief hesitation had she not been listening for it.

_He knew._

“Your chief is Ben-Hassrath, but the Inquisition’s Spymaster is willing to overlook that—for now. Just mind your manners.” Even if he didn’t, the Nightingale could fly faster than any mercenary could run, and so could Lace.

“Of course, my lady.”

She laughed. “I’m not an Aeducan. I’m not even a Tethras. ‘Ser’ will do just fine, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Ser. I look forward to working with you.”

-

Karl’s heart was lighter than it had been since this whole mess began. He’d chatted with Dorian for hours in the darkest part of the night and even dozed off for a rejuvenating nap, leaning back against the wall of the cabin. He woke to find Dorian in full armor, kneeling at his side, offering a steaming cup of hot cider and a rasher of fresh, crispy bacon.

“Oh, I could kiss Flissa,” Karl said, gratefully accepting the tray onto his lap.

“Could you?” Dorian asked, eyebrows raised. He plucked his own mug from the tray and sat back down on the floor opposite him. He looked his usual radiant self. He must have freshened up and shaved while Karl snored in front of the fire. The thought was alluring.

Karl chuckled. “It’s a figure of speech, Dorian. I have no plans to woo the tavern’s proprietor.” He leaned forward and let the right edge of his lips quirk sideways, hoping that Dorian would notice the heated appreciation in his gaze.

Dorian nonchalantly sipped his cider, completely unaffected. Damn, Karl was going to have to ask Varric for pointers on flirting. What did Tevinters like in their men, anyway? Unless . . . What if Dorian wasn’t interested? No. No point in ruining the mood this morning. Karl could face reality later.

Over breakfast, they chatted about magic and novels and the worst meals they’d ever cooked over an open campfire: Dorian’s failed mushroom soup was the winner. Dorian stacked all their dirty dishes neatly on the tray and set it by his used water basin.

“Are you ready?” Dorian asked.

“Yeah.” Karl took a deep breath. “Let’s go save the world.”

Dorian opened the door with a flourish and bowed him through. “Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

That comment made Karl’s heart race. “You promise that to every Marcher you pick up in a chantry?”

“Only you.”

Damn. If it hadn’t been so close to the time they needed to leave, Karl would have dragged Dorian back into the cabin and been more blunt about what exactly he wanted to know. Or maybe he should just kiss him in front of the apothecary for all to see and hope he didn’t get shot by lightning for being too forward. Unfortunately, they were both too cautious for such an impulsive display.

A hint of pink sunrise glowed around distant mountain peaks, but didn’t erase the sickly green tint the whirling Breach bled into the sky.

Josephine would be in her office already, just as polished as Dorian was. Karl wanted to check in with her one last time before meeting the Inquisition troops and free mages down at the stables. He was grateful for Dorian’s steady presence at his side.

“Any news?” Karl asked her.

Josephine smiled kindly. “Not in the five hours since we last spoke, Lord Trevelyan. But the Cadashes have offered to join this morning’s march, and Seeker Pentaghast has accepted.”

“That’s excellent news, Ambassador. Thank you.”

Karl and Dorian stepped back out into the cold, where the pink sky was starting to turn blue around the Breach. As they descended the steps by the statue of Andraste’s mabari, they passed a recruit reporting to his captain.

“I don’t see why we need to build siege equipment. We’re not laying siege to anything.”

“That’s an excellent point, recruit. But if someone comes to lay siege to us, perhaps it’d be best for us to have some means to fight back.”

“Yes, Ser. Sorry, Ser.”

“ _Are_ we expecting an attack?” Dorian asked Karl in an undertone. “This place isn’t exactly a fortress.”

That was one of Karl’s constant worries as well. “The whole world knows where we are,” he said. “The Chantry no longer has enough troops, but if the Lord Seeker decides to march on us, or the Elder One sends his Venatori . . . ” He shook his head, unwilling to further voice the fears that churned his stomach.

This morning they would close the Breach. If they still lived this afternoon, then they could plan beyond that.

They passed through the stone arch in the village wall, where the wooden doors were propped open. Down by the lake were two newly erected trebuchets, one at the north end, and one at the south end. A third stood inside the village walls, just behind a rough wooden fence taller than a horse. Through her ambassadorial magic, Josephine had secured the equipment, along with three seasoned captains, one for each siege crew.

The northern crew was led by Captain Claire, a stern Fereldan woman in Inquisition armor and a helmet. She spoke with Cassandra in front of the stables. “We’re ready for anything, Seeker,” she said. “But it’s quiet: Sister Leliana’s agents haven’t reported any activity this side of the mountain since yesterday.”

Behind her, at full attention, stood a wiry young elf, perhaps no more than sixteen years old; his fair, clear skin had no vallaslin, and he wore Inquisition armor as proudly as his captain.

“Lots of new faces,” Karl murmured to Dorian. “I hope we can find bunks for all of them.”

Dorian hummed his agreement and warmed his nose with his gloved hand. He nodded toward the three Cadash siblings, who were chatting with Harritt. “For someone who loves mages so much, you sure do attract a lot of your own kind.”

Karl chuckled. All three of the dwarves had dual blades strapped to their backs, similar to those he and Leo used. “Here’s hoping all we need this morning is a little magic.”

Within moments, Leo and Scout Ava had joined them, Cassandra had held one last conference with Cullen, who would stay behind with Josephine and Leliana, and their company of Inquisition troops and free mages were lined up, ready to march.

Sera and Tama had volunteered to stay behind and help the refugees with breakfast, since Connor’s prized baker was part of this morning’s march. That also meant Karl didn’t need to worry about either of them freaking out over the major magic he was going to do with the mages’ help.

It was Karl’s third climb to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The first time, he’d been wary and pessimistic, resigned to an endless Templar war. The second, he’d thought himself terrified, and had braced for a gruesome death. Now . . . now he knew terror could be long, slow, and deep: A Pride demon was nothing compared to a world covered in red lyrium.

There wasn’t much talking on the way up, and no one sang a travel tune. It was a tense quiet, ripped apart by the mountain wind.

The Temple glowed red under a green sky.

Re-entering the worship space was even more eerie than the last time, when the voices of the Elder One and Justinia had bled through the first rift he had closed. What they were about to do could very well destroy the world. In Karl’s nightmares, the end of the world was chaotic, not this empty silence.

“Dorian.” He reached for Dorian’s hand and squeezed. “I don’t know what this will do to me, or what demons I might unleash. Please, keep your reserves, just—just in case.”

Dorian squeezed back. “As you wish.”

Perhaps Karl had been selfish when he hadn’t sent Dorian home after Redcliffe. But now it was too late to shelter him from the Breach. And after the Breach . . . well, if there still was a world, Karl couldn’t envision it without Dorian at his side.

He looked around. Everyone had moved to their positions: Leo, Varric, Cassandra, Ava, and Solas with a dozen soldiers at the far end of the roofless space; archers and mages on the broken balconies; more swords stationed around the perimeter, with the Cadash siblings positioned in front of the nearest line, expressions serious.

“Are you ready, my lord?” Connor stepped forward and Karl dropped Dorian’s hand.

“Yes.”

“I’ll act as an amplifier,” Connor said. “I will funnel the mana into you, be your bridge to the other mages, and your grounding force.”

“Grounding force?” Karl’s heart sped up.

“Your anchor to this world,” Dorian said, eyes full of worry. “So you don’t drift off into the rift and lose yourself in the Fade.”

“I won’t,” Karl said, raising his Marked hand toward the Breach while he watched Dorian’s beautiful face. “I promise.”

After all the apprehension, it took surprisingly little effort. Whatever Connor did felt like a warm beam of sunshine across his skin. His bones hummed. The Mark flashed forth, sending a beam of green light up to pierce the center of the Breach. The edges of the hole wavered as the beam of light crackled outward. Tangled strings of energy burst from it, latched to the edges of the Breach and pulled them inward.

“Good,” Connor said calmly. “Now, close it.”

And with a twist of his wrist, Karl closed the Breach.

A great boom shook the air and ground. Loose bricks cascaded down from the broken walls. The sky was a blur of blue and fast-moving white clouds.

The Breach was gone.

A cheer went up from the soldiers and mages, but Karl couldn’t tear his eyes away from Dorian. They had done it!

“Herald!” In a blinding flash of blue light, Ava had left Cassandra’s position and was at his side, the white trail of a Fade Step in her wake.

“Well, shit,” Varric’s voice echoed across the broken temple. “Wait until Buttercup and her girlfriend find out Ava’s a mage.”

Karl would have laughed, except for the fear written all over the scout’s face.

“What is it?”

“Red lyrium,” Connor said, frowning. “A lot of it, moving fast.”

“I hear it, too,” Dorian said, stepping closer to Karl.

Cassandra drew her sword. “As do I. And it did not come from the Temple.”

“Templars,” Ava whispered, voice trembling. “And Venatori. An army of them.”

Alarm bells rang up the mountain.

Haven was under attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check it out! My friend [geekyblackchic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyblackchic) drew [this gorgeous drawing](https://dafan7711.tumblr.com/post/165482747356/geekyblackchic-a-gift-for-my-lovely-friend) of Leo and Lace for me as a gift:
> 
>  


	12. In Your Heart Shall Burn (Haven Falls)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/) and [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/).
> 
> Content includes fantasy battle violence. Drowning implied but not described. Body horror: Red Templars, Corypheus, blighted dragon.
> 
>  

The Elder One! Even the most seasoned of the troops at Leo’s side shrank back in fear. Leo looked to Karl for instructions; traveling with Dorian and Solas had taught him a lot about fighting alongside magic, but Karl knew how to work with a group of battlemages.

He hoped beyond hope that Lace had cleared the mountain before the Venatori had arrived.

“Connor,” Karl said in desperation, “I need a plan.”

Connor jerked his chin toward a group of mages on the balcony and three of them took off: Mid-step, two shifted into ravens, and the third became a Mabari that ran off toward the village faster than any man.

“Solas!” Connor called out. “Can you steer a sled?”

Solas raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”

“Form up!” Karl shouted, and everyone followed Connor out of the Temple ruins.

With a wave of his hands, Connor felled a massive stone slab from the Temple wall to lay on the snow-covered slope. Solas and other mages followed his example.

“Four swords or bows to each sled!” Connor said. “Two mages to steer. If you’re afraid of falling, close your eyes and hold on to the person in front of you.” He turned to Karl. “My lord, if you would accompany me.”

It was an order, not a question, and Leo wondered how things would have been different had a mage been allowed to be Arl. For one thing, the Conclave might not have been necessary. Perhaps none of this would have.

Karl pulled Dorian onto Connor’s sled. Leo, Varric, and Cassandra followed.

Ava boarded Solas’ sled and cast a purple barrier over the soldiers who sat and knelt between them.

Connor shouted the last of his instructions. “Don’t wait for the sleds to stop; the Red Templars will kill you where you stand. If you can’t hit the ground running, roll until you’re clear."

With a deafening whoosh of invisible power, the sleds sped down the mountain. Connor stood on the first sled, wind tearing through his hair and enchanted battlerobes. Everyone else knelt or sat, clinging to the very devices that hurtled them down the icy mountainside.

Leo’s heart raced as fast as the sled. Faster than it had when they’d fought that Pride demon. This wasn’t a remote battle that risked only his life, Karl’s, and the troops’. The refugees were below. All the children. The Venatori would slaughter them.

His blood thundered in his ears until he couldn’t hear the biting mountain winds that tore across his body. The sun was finally up over the tallest peaks—yellow, after all these weeks of poisonous green. Black smoke and red flames rose high from the village.

Haven burned.

Completely bypassing the twisted, broken trails and steps they’d climbed that morning, they hurtled toward the stone bridge south of Harritt’s forge. It was swarming with Red Templars.

“There’s too many of them!” an Inquisition soldier cried out.

“Steady!” Connor answered. “Jump!” He leapt and landed on his feet with a stomp that thrust jagged pillars of earth upward, launching tainted enemies into the air and over the side of the bridge.

Karl rolled off their speeding sled and Leo followed his lead, frigid snow snaking down the collar of his leather armor. The sled crashed into the bridge and snapped in two, before sliding sideways over the snow-covered edge into the ravine.

Their allies hit the snow around them, some running, some falling, some rolling to avoid Templar swords.

The red-tainted invaders roared. The frantic clash of swords and magic was punctuated by shouts as varied as the volunteers who’d made the pilgrimage to Haven.

“For Ferelden!”

“For the Divine!”

“Damn you bastards for Kirkwall!”

“Maker save the Herald!”

“ _Freedom!_ ” That from a mage who wore leather pants and a plain leather tabard instead of Circle robes. She thrust out her palm, sending an ice spike through the chest of a Red Templar archer and kicked his body down the hill.

There was no stealth and very little strategy. Leo’s knives flashed as fast as Karl’s. They forced their way across the bridge, the spilt blood as treacherously slippery as the ice underneath it.

They found the siege crew at the south trebuchet fighting for their lives in hand-to-hand combat.

Captain Claire was deep in the middle of the fight, her sword swift and deadly. The elf who had been with her earlier stood on the trebuchet platform, firing arrow after arrow, each one felling an enemy who was immediately replaced by another.

“I’m out!” He dropped his bow and drew his sword from its sheath at his side, jumping down to fight at his captain’s side.

Several breathless minutes later, Leo plunged his knife into the throat of a Templar and shoved him away with his foot, flinching away from the spray of tainted blood. The enemy wore a hood, but no helmet obscured his red face, which was riddled with white and red cracks like a broken stone. His bloodshot eyes went from raging to lifeless before his body hit the ground.

Leo spun around, panting, braced for the next blow he needed to parry, but there was a lull in the battle around the south trebuchet.

Cassandra paced the tree line, watching for stragglers. Everyone else wiped their blades and looked to Haven.

Screams and giant fires could still be heard within the village walls. Black smoke rose to obscure the sun. The clamor of more approaching troops cascaded down the mountain.

The soldier had been right: There were too many.

_We’re going to die. He’s won._

Quiet resolve settled over Leo’s heart and he looked to Karl. His brother met his eye, lips pursed in grim determination, and nodded.

They would take as many with them as they could.

“Don’t despair. Hope is better.” A pale, gaunt man suddenly appeared at his side, stealth powder dissipating around his feet. He looked no older than twenty, and wore oddly patched brown leathers and a massive wide-brimmed hat.

Leo jumped back, heart pounding in his throat, blades raised, and the young man shied back. He wore knives in sheaths on his back, but made no move to draw them.

“I’m Cole. I came to warn you. But the Templars were faster.”

“Get this thing centered!” Captain Claire shouted, watching the perimeter while a half-dozen of her crew jumped up on the trebuchet platform. The Cadash siblings and Varric planted themselves in front of the steps, ready to defend the crew.

The newcomer tilted his head, peered at Ava with curiosity.

“Purple feathers. Dried leaves. The lady’s voice in the wind. _We stand upon the precipice of change_.” Cole frowned. “Change? What change?”

Well, that was creepy. Leo tightened his grip on his weapons.

“Not now, Cole,” Ava said mildly.

“You _know_ him?” Karl asked.

“No, we just met. Judging from the blue and red lyrium stains on his armor, he’s been spying on Templars. It’s likely he _was_ on his way to warn us.”

“I want to help,” Cole said, drawing his blades, which looked a lot like Ava’s.

“It’s like he was reading your mind,” Karl said. “Is it magic? Is he a mage?”

“No,” Ava and Solas answered in unison.

Dorian shrugged an elegant shoulder.

“Brace for the next wave!” Connor cast an ice wall between the trebuchet and the blacksmith’s forge.

Dorian and Solas cast ice walls between the trebuchet and the lake.

“Centered and clear. Fire!” Captain Claire shouted, and the trebuchet catapulted a shote up at the mountain. The ground shook with a deafening rumble as a blinding wall of snow tumbled down to bury the reinforcements marching along the upper slope. So many dead. Yet more ran on, clear of the avalanches’ path. “Reload!”

The captain looked to the elf in her crew and pointed toward the north, toward the village gate. “Jay, the other trebuchet isn’t firing. Find out why. Fly, fly!”

The elf sheathed his sword and morphed into a small flying bird the same color as the pale blue sky that was now hidden with smoke. His fast-beating wings glowed with the same ethereal white-blue as a Fade Step trail.

“You know what?” Varric said. “I’m just going to start assuming that all of the Nightingale’s scouts are secret mages.”

“Not all of us,” Ava said. “Besides, he’s siege crew, not a scout.”

Karl snorted and grinned at Leo, just like he did at home, before suggesting they take Ace and Pepper over a higher jump than they’d ever tried before. Somehow, he was always right, and they came home as unscathed as the horses. Maybe they’d get out of this after all.

Dozens of boots tromped over the frozen lake and down the dirt path from the blacksmith.

Suddenly, the blue bird was back, landing on the ground and resuming his elven form in one smooth movement. “They’re all dead! It’s crawling with Red Templars. The Venatori are going to use it against the village!”

Connor stepped forward with an angry growl to stand between Dorian and Solas. “Mages!” His mages quickly lined up behind him. “Break that ice!”

They all raised their hands toward the lake. Dorian and Solas followed suit.

With a thunderous crack that hurt Leo’s ears, the ice, thick enough to stand the tromping of armored warriors, magically split into dozens of pieces, dumping them all in the water. They sank like boulders.

“We should boil it,” a robed and hooded mage sneered. “They’ve done worse to us.”

“No.” Connor turned and shook his head. “Their fate is gruesome enough. Let us show mercy where we can.”

The other mage straightened and spoke respectfully. “As you say, Grand Enchanter.”

“Connor,” Karl eyed the ice wall that blocked the path. Invaders yelled and chipped away at it from the other side. “We really need to get to the north trebuchet. Now.”

“Yes.” Connor swept his arms forward, simultaneously raising and shoving a wall of fire as tall as the chantry. The ice wall shattered and a squad of Red Templars fell in smoldering heaps, eerily silent.

With a roar, a lone tainted Templar as broad as two men ran forward through the flames, face as red as fire, massive arms crackling with purple lightning. Connor hit him in the back with a fireball, but he sped onward, running headlong through the side of the trebuchet like a raging druffalo scattering stalks of wheat in a field.

The siege crew lunged for cover as the burning Templar plowed through. The trebuchet’s base snapped, all its joints exploding into flaming splinters as large as saplings, raining fiery sparks down on Inquisition soldiers.

Connor flung a bolt of ice into the Red Templar and the enemy finally fell on his face, silent and twitching.

By him lay Captain Claire, clutching at her side: a splintered piece of lumber had run through her armor.

“ _Mamae!_ ” The shape-shifting elf ran to her side and fell to his knees, crying and holding her hand.

“Go with the Herald, Sergeant,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Captain . . .” He swallowed back his tears, but still sounded like a lost child.

Ava knelt beside them. “I can help, if you wish. Try to heal you. Do you want me to try?”

“Sathan,” the Captain said.

Ava placed her hands on the Captain. “Solas, some mana, if you please. You,” she nodded to one of Connor’s healers, “get ready to pull the spike out.”

Connor pulled on Leo’s arm. “We must go, my lord. They can take care of her.”

Leo took a few faltering steps, eyes still glued to the injured siege captain. “‘Mamae,’ is that . . .”

“Mother?” Connor answered gruffly. “Yes, yes, we can be shocked later. There is more than one mother on this battlefield today. We need to _move_.”

Actually, he was surprised that an _elf_ had passed for a human long enough to earn her rank. But perhaps Josephine’s friend who had loaned them the use of her crews was a more open thinker than the Fereldans Leo had met.

He raced after Karl, Connor, and the others. At the north trebuchet, Venatori foot soldiers worked the giant gears to turn the device toward the village, but kept falling to arrows from Inquisition archers just outside the walls.

Some of the archers wore green and brown uniforms; others were volunteers, pilgrims in plain farmers’ clothes. They’d probably never brought down anything more menacing than a ram or deer, and here they were braving tainted Templars and a Tevinter cult as the village burned behind them. One archer was a girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve, pulling arrows from her quiver at lightning speed, and loosing each without a blink. Every shot hit home.

Cullen and his recruits fought in front of the archers, keeping the foot soldiers off of them.

Connor suddenly stopped running and looked up. “Retrea—”

His order was interrupted by a red explosion that knocked Leo on his ass in the snow. The roar of a giant beast shook the mountain as a dragon—sweet Andraste, a fucking _dragon_ —swooped overhead.

The trebuchet and all the Venatori upon it were reduced to smoldering ash. Crackles of red lightning bubbled across the muddy ground.

“A dragon that spits lyrium?!” Varric shouted. “Who ordered the end of the damn world?!”

“Everyone back to the chantry!” Cullen ordered. “It’s the only building that might hold against that beast!”

They ran through the village gate and barred it behind them.

But there were already invaders inside.

“South fences are down!” Ava and Solas had made it inside just ahead of them, carrying the injured siege captain on a makeshift stretcher. “Give us time to get her inside!”

Connor strode across the battlefield, felling Red Templars and Venatori left and right. Shouting encouragement, casting barriers. With a step forward and a sweep of his arms he knocked an entire line of troops down the stone steps by the statue of Andraste’s mabari, where they lay with their necks broken.

Harritt raced past, a single hammer clutched to his chest, pulling Flissa along by the hand. Her red hair and his full moustache were black with soot. Seggrit stumbled after them, clutching his side.

“We’re coming!” Minaeve and Adan limped as fast as they could, while Lysette guarded their back, parrying blades with Red Templars who tried to follow them.

“Threnn,” Lysette shouted over her shoulder, “get inside!”

The surly quartermaster seemed reluctant to leave the fight, but did as the Templar ordered, and Lysette ducked in after her.

Out front of the chantry, Sera and Tama helped a handful of soldiers keep the door clear.

“About friggin’ time you showed up!” Sera sent an explosive shot through a line of Venatori swordsmen. “My girlfriend saved all the priests while you were dickin’ around up the mountain.”

Karl laughed and saluted her.

Surrounded by the last Inquisition soldiers still on their feet, Varric and Cassandra stemmed the tide of Templars at one set of stairs, Sera and Tama at the other, while Cullen and Chancellor Roderick ushered the last of the refugees and wounded into the chantry building and closed the doors.

Leo and Karl stood with Dorian and Solas, guarding them while the mages felled the invaders from afar.

A Venatori Enchanter effortlessly leapt over the wall between Leliana and the Quartermaster’s tents, arms outstretched, gathering up all the blood from the fallen—tainted and untainted, foe and ally alike—growing a red whirling cloud of death in front of him as he walked.

Recognition flashed across Dorian’s face.

“Macrinus!” Dorian shouted over screams, fires, and clashing metal. “Stop this madness!”

The other mage ignored his plea and yanked an amulet from around his neck.

“We serve. In life, and in death!” The Venatori tossed the amulet into the blood, and a green rift exploded in front of the chantry, illuminating the pale faces of two freckled, redheaded children who stood outside.

Sound stopped. Breath stopped. Leo could not even feel the throb of his own heartbeat.

The twins Flissa had told him about. They couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Why weren’t they in the chantry?

Bad enough to see a soldier cut down, but a child—

The girl took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her brother held her wrist, watching her face intently.

“Stella, no!” Connor shouted, panic touching his voice for the first time since Leo had met him.

She took another breath.

“No!” He Fade Stepped to her side, just as she took a third breath and her body stilled, as if she slept where she stood.

“You!” Connor pointed at Karl, and then the rift-opening Venatori, who was fighting a dozen Inquisition troops. “Kill him!”

Connor looked to the boy at his side. “Watch us,” he said, and the boy nodded, taking his wrist in hand. A purple barrier sprung up over them.

Connor closed his eyes, took three breaths, and went as still as the girl.

Solas cocked his head, watching them with shrewd interest.

A terror demon’s gangly green arm protruded from the rift, then froze in ice—from the _other_ side of the rift—and shattered.

“Fascinating,” Dorian said.

“We can be fascinated later!” Karl scowled, hurling a jar of Antiva fire at the Venatori Enchanter, disrupting his next spell. “Kill that bastard!”

It was a blur of magic, blades, and pain. The Venatori mage fought as if his billowing robes weren’t aflame, casting stunning and ice spells at every Inquisition soldier in sight. Leo and Karl dodged ice and ran to flank him while Solas and Dorian flung spells faster than the eye could follow. Fire singed the back of Leo’s glove when he drove a knife home into the mage’s back, leaving a black scorch in the purple ram’s leather.

“Master, I join your glory.” The Enchanter fell to his knees and crumbled into smoldering ash.

Ava appeared at Connor’s side, blades drawn, and flung chain lightning into a row of Red Templars, knocking them to the ground, dead and steaming. She cast a green Life Ward overtop of the young boy’s purple barrier.

“How long?” she asked.

“As long as you need.” His eyes were unfocused, his answer muted, as if he was half-way into the Fade himself. “I can anchor them as long as you need. They can find their way back. It’s okay to close it.”

“Herald,” Ava said. “Close it.”

“But Connor and the kid are in there!” Karl protested.

“Do it!” Cassandra shouted over her shoulder as she felled a Red Templar with her shield.

With an angry growl, Karl reached up and clenched his glowing fist, snapping the rift closed. He turned toward the boy. “Call. Them. Back.”

“It doesn’t work that way.” The boy stared into space. “But she won’t linger. She never does.”

Stella blinked and stirred.

Leo held his breath, watching Connor for any sign of life.

A moment later, Connor blinked and returned to the waking world, his calm battle façade back in place. “Never do that again,” he said as casually as if asking for tea.

The child lifted her chin in defiance. “My parents are _dead_ , Connor. I have to make decisions for myself now.”

“You two are needed in the chantry,” Connor said. “Help the healers with barriers and potions.”

The girl took her brother’s hand and stomped into the chantry.

“For one so young to show such promise . . .” Solas said.

“She’s not a specimen for study,” Connor answered tersely. “Leave her alone.”

Solas’ lips twitched in amusement.

“Your attention to the task at hand!” Cassandra called back.

The gruesome battle waged around them.

“Connor,” Karl asked, “are there any more of those amulets on the field?”

“I can’t tell. The dragon’s aura is muddling every magical force in the village.” He looked to Dorian, who released a burst of incredulous laughter.

“The artifact may be of Tevinter origin, but that does not mean I can sense it any better than you, Grand Enchanter. However, I can tell you the resources required to craft such an object, and make it stable enough to wear, are vast. I doubt they would have more than two or three across the whole continent, and we destroyed the one Alexius used on us.”

Leo shuddered. That amulet had cost them a year of suffering he was glad not to remember.

“And the dragon?” Karl asked.

“I don’t know,” Dorian answered, expression as grim as Connor and Solas’.

“Then it’s a good thing we’ve got a Nevarran dragon hunter with us,” Karl said.

“I am otherwise engaged!” Cassandra shouted back, staggering the Venatori mage in front of her with a spell purge.

A great black smoke rose from just the near side of the south fences. The final trebuchet was burning. Not that they could have fought that far anyway. They were overrun.

Trapped.

“There is a way out.” Cole appeared at Ava’s side and Leo jumped back a step. Shit, he’d forgotten all about the boy.

“The pilgrimage path, Roderick knows it. He’s bleeding, inside, more than you can fix. But he knows the way. A secret way out.”

A secret way out for the refugees? Leo barely dared to hope.

Ava looked to Karl and he nodded. “Get them out. We’ll distract the enemy.”

“Yes, a distraction,” Cole said. “The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. All he wants is the Herald.” He pointed toward the village gate, just as it burst open in a fireball. “He’s very angry that you took his mages.”

“He’s not getting them back,” Connor growled, shoving the latest wave of attackers back with a force of wind that tore the top off of the tavern and left it shattered into splinters on the ground. “Lord Trevelyan, it has been an honor, but I must guide the children out of here.”

“Go, Connor. We’ll catch up. Sera, Tama, I need you to help the villagers get the wounded out the back door.”

“Of course, my lord,” Tama said.

Sera hesitated.

“I’ll follow you when the coast is clear,” Karl said. “I promise.”

Sera sniffed and punched him in the shoulder, handing him her last jar of bees. “You better, you soddin’ noble.”

Cassandra ordered the last of Cullen’s troops inside and the chantry doors closed one last time, barred from the inside with a mighty clang.

“Well, I always knew the South would be the death of me,” Dorian said with false cheer.

Varric shook his head. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you Sparkler?”

“The enemy approaches.” Cassandra moved to stand in front of Karl. “Let us be ready.”

Leo took a deep breath and moved to his brother’s side. “What do you need from me?”

“Fight if you must. Run when you can. Even if I cannot follow.”

A stone of certainty lodged itself in Leo’s chest. He would not leave without his brother.

-

It tore out a chunk of Karl’s heart to send Sera away. She had looked at him like he was dead already and she’d forgotten how to laugh. But she was quick, Tama was strong, and they were seriously scrappy fighters the refugees needed as a rear guard.

Thick clouds had rolled in unnoticed during the battle, obscuring the mid-day sun. Snow fell through the black smoke around the demolished gate as a creature of nightmares stepped through: He was close to ten feet tall, with the pinched, angry face of a wrinkled old man; spikes of red lyrium grew from his face, chest, and arms, like living armor; his pink skin stretched tight along his ribcage, visible through tears in his crumbling black robes. His eyes held more hate than all the Templars and Chantry Mothers of the world combined.

The dragon landed next to him, shaking the ground and knocking snow from tree branches. Its roar overcame all other sounds. Its black body was as riddled with corruption as its master’s.

Terrified, Karl clutched at Dorian’s sleeve.

“Steady,” his brother murmured behind him, and his heartbeat slowed to a mere gallop. Leo was here. They would make it.

“Pretender.” The monster’s sneering voice was deep and raspy. “Exalt the Elder One. The will that is Corypheus.”

“Cory—shit,” Varric said.

“Cor-y-phe- _us_ ,” the monster with a man’s voice hissed back, throwing red lightning at Varric, who took a leaping shot backward. Corypheus caught Varric’s bolt in his clawed hand and crushed it into cinders.

Cassandra roared and ran forward, only to be caught in a red static cage. She crumpled to her hands and knees with a grunt and dealt the creature a venomous stare.

“Fight all you wish, little girl. Try your ridiculous spell purge. Your meager skills are no match for my magic.”

Solas didn’t look at the monster’s face. He shrewdly eyed something at Corypheus’ side.

“The orb,” he said. “You used it to create the Breach.”

Corypheus laughed and raised his hand, showing off a round stone ball, intricately carved and swirling with green and red magic. “Know your master, _elf_.”

With a grunt of pain, Solas fell to the ground, wrists turned inward.

Corypheus turned his glare on Karl, pointed at his Marked hand.

“ _Thief_. You flail the Anchor at rifts. It belongs to _me_. _I_ crafted it to assault the very heavens. I will touch the Black City again. It will be my throne. You. Will. Kneel.

“You’ve seen the Black City?” Dorian frowned. He spoke calmly, but held his staff ready for more fighting.

Corypheus’ evil chuckle grated along Karl’s spine more than a terror demon’s shriek. “I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the Empire _in person_. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more. I have gathered the _will_ to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world. _Beg_ that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and _it was empty_.

“ _I_ am your god, and the Imperium will be restored.”

“Ha,” Dorian scoffed. “You are as behind in your Tevinter news as you are in your moisturizing routine. We barely keep a foothold in Seheron as it is.” He eyed the dragon with disgust. “Not even your ugly dog can fix that.”

Despite Dorian’s taunt, the beast was a horrifyingly powerful weapon.

The wind shifted, sending a snow-filled breeze across the back of Karl’s neck. He shivered.

_Kill his dragon._

Right. They were fatigued from their failed fight for Haven. There was no way he, Varric, and Dorian could take out the monster and his dragon. And he wouldn’t sacrifice the trapped Cassandra and Solas over a battle they could not win. There had to be another way.

Corypheus growled and the dragon rose on its back legs, preparing to spit.

Despite there being no rift for him to connect to, Karl instinctively flung up his Marked hand, flinging a ball of Fade magic into the beast’s face.

The dragon screamed and stomped sideways, flailing out with its lyrium-tipped wings and knocking its master over.

The red barrier around Cassandra fell.

“Grab Cassandra!” Karl shouted to Leo, as he and Dorian rushed to Solas and pulled him to his feet.

He flung Solas’ arm over Dorian’s shoulder. “Down the south path.”

“Not without you.” Purple fire burned in Dorian’s eyes.

“I’m right behind you.”

Dorian huffed and went. Leo and Cassandra limped along behind them while Varric peppered the panicked dragon with the last of Bianca’s bolts.

“ _If he pulls a dragon out of his ass, I’m leaving_ ,” Varric muttered. “Brilliant, Tethras; you should just learn to keep your mouth shut.”

“Run!” Karl flung Sera’s last jar of bees in the dragon’s face and raced after his brother.

They caught up with Leo and the others as they neared the smoldering ruin of the last trebuchet.

“There!” Cassandra pointed to a break in the fence. “A tunnel where the beast cannot follow.”

Dorian peered down. “It’s a drop, but we can make it.” He cast a barrier over himself and Solas and leapt down, pulling the elf with him.

“It’s all right,” Dorian called back up, “I’ll catch you with a wind charm.”

Cassandra grunted and jumped down, followed by Leo.

The dragon’s frantic stomping had stopped. With an angry roar, it charged down the south path, kicking up chunks of stone as it thundered toward them.

Varric jumped into the cave.

Karl raised his hand to blast the dragon again, but Corypheus was faster, flinging him backward with a ball of white searing light that hit his chest like a battering ram.

He fell through breathless silence, and was unconscious before he hit the ground.

-

A horse sat on his chest. That had to be why breathing was so hard.

“Herald,” Cassandra’s voice came to him from far away. “Herald, we must move, or we will freeze.”

Karl blinked his eyes open.

Solas leaned over him. “I am no spirit healer, but our last elfroot potion should be sufficient until we can get you to a proper healer. Ava will be most displeased that I allowed you to sustain another head injury.”

Karl chuckled and immediately regretted it. “Ow, Solas,” he hissed through his teeth, “Don’t make me laugh. Feels like my ribs are trying to tear my lungs out.”

“Yeah, Chuckles,” Varric said, “The Herald doesn’t want to die laughing.” The dwarf sat on an icy boulder, his hands resting in his lap, one wrist bandaged.

Solas frowned and helped Karl raise his head to sip the potion. It wasn’t warm. It was . . . dull. A dull, unspecific taste that flowed in a dull, lukewarm path down his throat and spread slowly to the rest of his body. It didn’t perk him up like Dorian’s rejuvenating potions had, but it eased the pain into moderate soreness.

He eased himself up into a sitting position. Dorian and Leo sat side by side on another boulder, watching him with identical looks of worry.

“The dragon’s stomping caused a cave-in,” Cassandra said. “The Elder One could not follow.”

“How long?” Karl asked.

“Less than an hour,” she said. “Dorian caught you when you fell. Your injuries are a result of whatever spell Corypheus hit you with.”

Karl looked at Dorian, who looked very small and cold. “Thank you.”

Dorian nodded and swallowed thickly, but his expression did not change.

“The Seeker did some seeking,” Varric said. “There’s a tunnel out of here.”

“Yes,” she said. “It heads south and opens near the pilgrimage path. I walked—” She looked down at her gloved hands, but her voice remained steady. “I walked it with Leliana last summer.”

“She’s resourceful, Seeker. We’ll meet her up the mountain.” Varric’s gravely response was more hope than Karl could muster.

He’d just have to keep going without hope.

The tunnel before them was short. It ended with a man-sized hole out into a whiteout.

“Follow that tree line.” Cassandra pointed. Karl couldn’t see it in the furiously falling snow, but Solas nodded and started marching. Everyone else fell in behind.

Dorian and Solas led the way, shielding them from the worst of the wind and snow with barrier and wind spells. Cassandra and Varric brought up the rear, uncharacteristically silent.

Leo fell into step at Karl’s side. “You got up ‘Just to move around,’ huh? Which is why everyone knows Dorian took you a breakfast tray— _into_ Dorian’s cabin.”

A spark of warmth grew and filled Karl’s chest. Leo always knew how to distract him from dire circumstances. Nice to know that the trick worked even when faced with a would-be god and hypothermia. He wished he could banter back in kind, but there was nothing to report.

“Nothing happened. Not for lack of trying. He seems immune to my flirting.”

“Well, try harder tonight, or I’ll have to have another talk with him.”

That revelation stopped Karl in his tracks, while Leo kept walking. “Wait, what?” He ran through the knee-high snow as best he could to catch up with his brother. “You _talked_ to him. About me. As in _talk-talked_?”

“Not thoroughly enough, it seems.”

As the day grew dim and the temperature even more frigid, the stabbing pain in Karl’s ribs came back with a vengeance. Each hitching breath of piercingly cold air made it worse. He leaned heavily on Leo’s arm and their entire party slowed to keep his pace. He watched his brother’s boots: lift, foot forward, down, lift, foot forward, down, lift . . .

He stopped hearing the crunch of the snow, the howl of the wind. Stopped feeling the weight of his brother’s arm.

Stopped feeling the pain.

Fog rolled in over the snow.

Strange that the others didn’t notice it.

Fog on snow couldn’t be good. Was it?

He fell to his knees and closed his eyes.

A pair of joyous whinnies pierced through the fog and he tried to smile. His eyelids were too heavy, his mouth too lax.

At least Ace and Pepper had run away before the village had burned.

Karl fell face first into the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	13. Trouble on the Storm Coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works), [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata/works), and [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works).
> 
> Content includes battle violence.
> 
>  

 

Lace had expected Ava on the second day, but didn’t start worrying until the third.

She’d chatted amicably with Krem for most of their march, glad for the company, but the leaden feeling in her gut became heavier with each step away from Leo and the Inquisition. Ava was the one who would tell her it was going to be all right, that the Trevelyans were triumphant and heading her way.

Proceeding without Ava wasn’t part of any of her contingency plans, even the plans that assumed the Herald didn’t make it and they’d have to find another way to deal with the rifts.

Lace didn’t realize she was frowning at her noontime rations, until Krem nudged her elbow.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Scout Ava should have met us thirty-six hours ago; twenty-four at the latest.” Lace forced herself to take a bite of the druffalo jerky. It was perfectly smoked and spicy, but she was in no mood to appreciate it. She ate it anyway; they had miles more to cover and she needed the energy.

“Maybe she was delayed by the weather,” Krem said. “As we were.”

“No,” Lace shook her head. “Ava would find her way even if ground became sky, if shore became water. Only death or a catastrophe as big as Redcliffe could make her miss her promised time.”

The truth lay another lead bar in her stomach, next to the one she’d gained when she left Leo’s side. “We’re on our own, for the foreseeable future.”

He nodded, expression grim. “You have my sword, Ser.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m afraid there will be a great need before our task is done.”

The next stretch was flat enough to ride, and everyone was once again moving their gear to the pack horses to free up some saddles. A human scout bent down to open the cage carrying Leliana’s red-crested ravens.

“Leave them, Ritchie,” she said. “We won’t be sending a report today. We’ll wait until we hit the coast tomorrow.”

“But Ser . . .”

Lace opened her eyes wide and cocked her head, daring him to keep talking. Not once had someone questioned her orders in the Hinterlands. Or tried to bring her one of the birds before she’d asked for it, report in hand.

Lace _really_ missed Ava.

“Sorry, Ser.” The human ducked his head and re-latched the crate.

“Hanging on to your assets?” Krem murmured at her side.

“I’ve sent two birds and received none back,” Lace answered just as quietly. “If I don’t receive a response in another day, I send a Denerim homing pigeon to the King.”

Krem peered over her shoulder for a closer look at the crates, where two gray birds snuggled together in a little kennel next to the ravens.

“The King of Ferelden is friends with the Inquisition? I don’t think that’s public knowledge.”

“King Alistair is friends with the _Nightingale_ , Left Hand of the Divine. They faced an archdemon together, Krem, and are two of the most powerful people in Thedas. I recommend not poking too much into their dealings.”

“Screw royalty,” Krem said. “I know better than to mess with _you_.”

Lace laughed, the weight in her stomach suddenly not so heavy a burden to carry. It hurt, and it was scary, but she would go on anyway.

She led her horse to a tree stump and mounted. “So, Lieutenant, you promised to regale me with the story of how The Iron Bull saved your life the day you met.”

“Yes, it’s how he lost his eye.”

“Really? Tell me.”

It was a pleasant ride, even after the sunny sky turned gray. Krem told her story after story.

About leaving his Tevinter home when his father, a simple tailor, had to sell himself into slavery so he could afford to eat. Krem’s military service and why he had to flee his post. How Bull had saved him from bounty hunters in a tavern, getting his own head between Krem’s and a mace; Bull lost an eye, but the other men lost their lives. Then there was the time they’d gone giant baiting, which ended in disaster for their employer, but hadn’t harmed any of the Chargers. And the time someone had paid them in bags of rice; bags upon bags upon bags of rice, instead of gold. She’d laughed for a full five minutes over that one, as Krem described all the different rice-based puddings and dinner dishes they’d tried to make, with varying success.

But after the sun went down, and the evening rains rolled in to patter on the top of her tent, there was no spark of light or laughter in her chest. She lay on her side, staring through the dark at the empty spot that should have held Ava’s bedroll. Hand open palm-up beside her cheek, she cradled the gold compass Leo had given her, running her thumb back and forth over the horse engraved on it.

_So that you may always find your way home._

She knew the way. She just hadn’t thought she might be walking it alone.

-

Her Storm Coast crew may not have been Ava, but Lace was proud of them. The morning was wet and miserable, but no one complained, and they were ready to march shortly after the cloud-covered sunrise.

“If our map is accurate, it gets rocky about a mile from here?” Lace asked Krem.

“Yes. The rendezvous point is a half-day’s march. The Chief’s probably moved camp, but someone will be there to show us the way.”

“We’ll approach from the north.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That will require climbing several more hills. Are you expecting something not marked on your map? Or someone?”

She smiled. “You’ll see, Lieutenant.”

They didn’t talk much for the next few hours, as they picked their way across slick, rocky terrain. They had to backtrack twice to find footing solid enough for the horses, but still made it to the point she wanted before midday.

Krem let loose a low, impressed whistle. “We combed these hills and had no idea you were already here.”

Squat and inconspicuous, a half-dozen Inquisition tents were planted between boulders and scraggly trees. Unlike the Hinterlands, there were no banners or flags to announce their foothold. That was as it should be.

But Lace had not expected to find the camp empty.

“This is wrong,” she said, her heart rate spiking. “There should be two guards here, and their horses. A crate of . . .” she strode over to the nearest tent, where one of the stakes had come loose. The fabric had sagged to the ground, catching rainwater in a swirling puddle. Broken slats from one of Leliana’s cages spun in the water. “Ravens,” she whispered.

“Ser.” A soldier held up a broken blade. “Found this sword wedged under a rock. It’s not one of ours.”

“Lace!” Ritchie sprang from a tent, protecting a log book from the rain with the hem of his jacket. “The last entry is four days old. They were headed to the meeting. Jasper and Hance were to stay behind with the animals.”

Anger swiftly overcame her surprise. Her people had come to parley. And now . . .

“What meeting?” Krem asked.

“A week before I arrived at Haven, Leliana sent a group to talk with the Blades of Hessarian.”

“The local bandits who claim to serve Andraste? But why come here at all? I thought you didn’t know about the Venatori presence before my report.”

Lace wasn’t about to confide intelligence about the Grey Wardens’ disappearance to a mercenary working for a Ben-Hassrath. If she didn’t hear from Leliana today, she’d have to send word to the only Grey Warden she knew how to find: The King of Ferelden.

Shit, did he even know he might get a pigeon from a dwarf who, until recently, raised sheep and foaled horses for a living? What would she say?

_Dear King Alistair,_

_I am sorry to report that your friend Leliana is missing and might be dead, along with the Herald of Andraste. I know this because my elf friend didn’t show up when she said she would._

Yeah, the King would really believe that.

_P.S. I don’t know how to close the rifts._

She answered mildly. “You’re asking a lot of questions, Krem.”

“Sorry, Ser. What do we do next? Look for your people?”

She surveyed the grim faces of the people Leliana had entrusted to her care. It was possible they were all that was left of the Inquisition. A handful of scouts and soldiers. No Left or Right Hand. No Herald. No Leo.

Ava.

“Yes. If they’re alive, we free them. If they’re not . . .” Then she would kill someone. Swiftly. Cleanly. Decisively.

“Either way, it’s time to meet these Hessarian bastards. Ritchie, let me see the log book.”

The scout lifted a tent flap for her to duck into a relatively dry place and handed the book over. She sat cross-legged and read. It was only three pages of impersonal reports, one for each day they’d held the camp, each in crisp, professional handwriting and signed by Jasper. There was a cave to the north, full of deepstalkers and spiders. In the other direction, there was a hilltop shack where they had hoped to parley with the Blades of Hessarian and find clues to the Grey Wardens’ whereabouts.

Lace tucked the book into her belt pouch, next to her compass, and went back out into the rain. “A short way south of here, there’s a permanent structure up in the hills. We start our search there.”

Lace had her bow and knives, a pair of sleek Silverite daggers Leliana had given her when she had arrived at Haven. Krem had his broadsword. She picked one other swordsman and an archer, Dale and Quinn, to come with them and fervently hoped they wouldn’t need a healer. Two had been assigned here, and were now missing. If she ever saw Karl again, she was going to insist _every_ traveling party be assigned a healer.

They headed down the rocky hill, rain dripping from their hoods and running down the stones like little gray rivers.

After a half-mile of trudging up and down hills and around boulders, sounds of a skirmish rose up through the rain. Above the other sounds of combat rose a deep battle roar: almost human, but _bigger_.

Krem smiled. “That’s the Chief. Shall we, my lady?”

Lace strung her bow, pleased to see Quinn do the same as quickly and competently as she did. Krem and Dale drew their massive swords.

“Lead the way, Lieutenant.”

“Horns up!” Krem shouted, charging headlong down the rain-slicked slope, gravel and small stones cascading in his wake, Dale close behind.

Lace took a knee at the top of the hill, Quinn standing several paces to her right. The rain was steady but light. The gray daylight was more than enough to determine “friend” from foe: a rag-tag bunch of mercs versus the humans running around in Tevinter helmets and robes.

“Breastplates are solid,” Quinn said, “but the neck by the left shoulder appears to be less armored, especially on the Enchanters.”

“Good.” If she ever saw him again, she’d have to ask Dorian if the reason for it was functional, ornamental, or traditional. “Hit the mages first.”

 _Thwat, thwat, thwat._ She and Quinn took down the two Enchanters and a towering bruiser.

“Hey, that one was mine!” the one-eyed Quanri called up to them and slammed his war hammer down on a foot soldier stupid enough to get within arm’s reach of the largest fighter on the rocky beach. A fiery crack split the ground in front of his hammer and rushed forward into a line of other foot soldiers, who fell with piercing cries that were cut short.

The rest of the battle was over in less than a minute.

Lace unstrung her bow, strapped it to her back, and checked on her boot and belt blades.

She nodded toward a scraggly grouping of trees that were just enough to hide one clever person. The beach below would still be visible from there.

“Quinn, stand watch. If you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, or it goes to shit down there, run for camp and get everyone back to Haven.”

If there was anyone left at Haven to get back to.

“Yes, Ser.” Quinn slipped between the trees, bow still strung.

Lace squared her shoulders and made the trek down the slick, stony hill, where Krem was reporting to his superior.

“Five or six of ours wounded, Chief. No dead. Throat cutters report no Venatori survivors.”

“Good work,” Iron Bull said, watching Lace’s approach. “Break out the casks.”

His stance was relaxed, but the sharp appraisal of his gaze indicated he would be quick to act, if need be. _He_ certainly wasn’t underestimating her, despite his significant advantage in size.

“Welcome, Scout Harding. The Iron Bull, leader of the Bull’s Chargers. Mind if I sit?” He gestured toward a fallen tree and she nodded. When he sat, he was still nearly twice as tall as she was, but she could stand close enough to hold a somewhat private conversation and look him in the eye.

Krem and a hooded dwarf with a black moustache rolled an empty barrel over and set it upright for her to sit on, making her nearly eye-level with the Qunari.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, and . . . ?”

“Rocky.” The dwarf’s grin was mostly hidden by his enormous moustache. When he opened his mouth to speak further, Krem dragged him off toward the rest of their group: two elven women and two human men who were tapping a keg under the shelter of a tarp.

“Krem speaks highly of you,” Lace told Bull.

“He has to, I’m so much taller.”

“Heh,” Lace chuckled. “We’ve heard about your height and skill, and your references are stellar—but why do you want to work for us?”

“I hear the Inquisition’s doing good work.”

“Uh huh. There are less dangerous, more profitable opportunities.”

“Oh, your ambassador—what’s her name—Josephine; she can arrange plenty of gold to make it worth our while.”

“Josephine?” Lace raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. “I wasn’t aware the two of you were on a first-name basis.”

He cleared his throat. “Lady Montilyet has a stellar reputation, but she’s even more cutthroat than I am. You won’t pay a single gold piece more than we’re worth.”

“The Chargers appear to be a talented company,” Lace said, glancing over her shoulder. Each Charger had a mug in hand.

“Don’t worry, no one will have more than one drink. We’ve got half the day left, and we’ll be ready to march whenever you are.”

“You’re assuming I’ll hire you.”

“I’m hoping.” He leaned back on his hands.

“Because how else will you complete your assignment?”

“Assignment? We’re between contracts at the moment.”

“If you can’t get close to the Herald, you won’t have much to report back.”

“Report back?” His half-smile included a hint of straight white teeth between his dark gray lips. He thought he was stringing her along, but she wasn’t anywhere near to revealing information he shouldn’t know she knew.

“To the Viddasala.”

Iron Bull threw his head back and laughed, surprised and loud. The sound echoed off the rain-soaked cliffs, even after he stopped.

“You play a winning hand the first round, Lace Harding. Makes me wonder what other cards you have hidden up your sleeve. Yes, I’m a Ben-Hassrath spy with orders to cozy up to the Inquisition.”

“You confess, just like that?”

“Think I could hide something like that from an organization called the Inquisition? Nah, I knew I’d be tipped sooner or later. I just thought it would be later.”

She’d never knowingly met a follower of the Qun. She knew even less about the Qun than she did Tevinter—except for the stories about saar-qamek poison. She shivered.

He opened his arms wide. “Look at me: Hard to mistake me for someone else, even another Qunari.”

Right. Like someone who had successfully run a mercenary company under a pseudonym for years couldn’t come up with a convincing disguise. He was grandstanding, planting the lie that he was all flash and no subtlety.

“Look,” he leaned forward with his arms on his knees, like he was sharing a secret, “You’re not just getting my crew; you’re getting me for personal protection. And I’ll share some Ben-Hassrath reports with you, too, about those Vints.”

Had Krem not told Iron Bull about Dorian? Maybe he’d known even before sending Krem to Haven. Lace wasn’t about to risk tipping that sensitive information, just in case Bull didn’t know. His acceptance of Krem, a Tevinter deserter, would not translate into a warm partnership with an altus.

“So, we pretend to trust each other,” she said.

“Something like that, at least until the Venatori bullshit is dealt with. My superiors really hate Venatori. You’re safe with me, Lace. I’m not here to convert anyone.”

“Safe” with him. Right. Until she was more useful dead or brainwashed. No matter how much gold Josephine funneled to him, he followed a set of secret rules they didn’t know enough about.

She looked back at his crew. Krem waved and smiled broadly, raising his mug in a silent toast. Bull watched Lace with a concerned frown.

“So, do we have a deal?” he asked.

“Welcome to the Inquisition, Iron Bull.” Lace offered him a handshake and he accepted, without squeezing too hard, unlike half the rude humans she’d met.

“What’s the move, Boss?”

Lace gestured for Quinn to come down from her lookout and turned back to the still-seated Qunari, remembering the boiling anger she’d set aside long enough to focus on negotiations.

“We find my missing scouts—or avenge them.”

-

She sent Quinn back to camp to collect another archer, then the eleven of them—Lace, with her three scouts, plus Bull and his crew of six—set out looking for the building mentioned in Jasper’s log.

Bull was silent at Lace’s side as they picked their way up a slick, rocky slope, his bare gray chest glistening with the constant rain. Didn’t Qunari get cold? She’d have to ask Krem. Maybe it was an intimidation tactic and he was just hiding his discomfort.

If not for the layers under her mail and leather overcoat, her teeth would have been chattering.

She paused, held up a fist for everyone else to wait. Bull held his position on her right. Krem followed close on her left flank.

Lace gestured for her people to head left. Bull motioned for his people to head right. Krem and Stitches, the Chargers' human healer, followed behind her.

Dalish climbed a ladder attached to a dilapidated barn next to the main building, surveyed the area from the roof, and signaled the all-clear.

Silent as shadows, the rest surrounded the building.

Back to the wall, Bull leaned toward a window to sneak a peek, but Lace wasn’t going to wait any longer. She gave the door a swift kick just below the handle and it burst open, splintering the jam.

Bull chuckled and followed her inside.

“Well, crap,” he said.

The dim light through the dirty windows was more than enough to see the bloodbath inside.

“My people,” Lace growled. “This was supposed to be a fucking parley.”

Bull wrinkled his nose. “What a mess. Unnecessary.”

“Lace?” Krem asked hesitantly from behind her.

“I’m fine,” she said tersely. “Check everyone to be sure.”

She was the exact opposite of fine. Not even animals mauled bodies like this, then left them to lie.

“They’ve been like this for days—” Bull said.

“Check them anyway,” Lace ordered, and crouched down next to the nearest dead agent.

An elf with her skull crushed in. One of the healers. She clutched an amulet of Andraste’s Flame in her hand.

Heart cold and hard as the storm outside, Lace pried the amulet from the corpse’s fingers and put it in her pouch next to her beautiful new compass. She would see if the agent had friends or kin who wanted it.

“I’m sorry, Ser,” Stitches came over and handed her a Dalish wedding ring and a few other personal effects. “No survivors.”

“ _We’re_ still standing,” Lace said with determination. “But the bastards who did this are dead. They just don’t know it yet.”

Stitches nodded and went to help the others build a cairn. Krem stayed behind with Bull.

“Pretty consistent injuries, all made with a heavy sword or hammer,” Bull said. “Probably one berserker. Maybe with a few lackeys to keep the victims from escaping.”

He eyed her like he was gauging whether she could handle the next part. She motioned for him to continue.

“The elves were done over worse than the others; looks like their limbs were broken post-mortem.”

Lace swallowed to keep from vomiting. “You could tell all that from a brief look around?”

“I’ve seen another scene like this once. It’s not something you can forget.” His shoulders sagged and he rubbed at his good eye. “No matter how you try.”

“Lace,” Krem put a hand on her shoulder. “I found these.”

The pages he offered were damp, the ink smeared, but still legible. Papers torn from a diary of hastily scribbled notes.

The cold hardness in her chest ignited into a righteous fire.

“The leader of the Blades of Hessarian did this—and not all his people are pleased about it.” She handed the pages to Bull to read. “All I have to do is make a Mercy’s Crest and wear it to challenge him to a duel.”

“You?” Bull looked up suddenly, eye wide with the first genuine surprise she’d seen from him.

“Me. _I’m_ the highest-ranking Inquisition official here, Bull, and I’m not going to assign the task to anyone else, no matter how impressive their horns.”

Bull grinned. “Lead the way, Boss.”

Grim had a purse made of deepstalker hide he was willing to give up—at least that’s what Bull said the human’s grunts meant—and it was easy enough to find a chunk of serpentstone in a nearby rock face.

Krem stitched together the leather pieces and Rocky and Dalish embedded the stone into the setting.

“How did you do that?” Lace asked. They had no forge and it was pouring rain.

Rocky grinned and Dalish pretended not to hear.

They trekked higher in the hills, avoiding worn paths that might be patrol routes.

Catching sight of a group of men in blue uniforms she didn’t recognize, Lace motioned for everyone to hide behind some boulders.

“If I can get away with killing only one person today, I’d prefer it,” she said, as they resumed their hike.

“No reason to waste life,” Bull said. “Unless it’s Vint life.”

She shivered. She’d heard the stories about how the Qunari “re-educated” reluctant followers and turned the conquered into mindless laborers. She appreciated the Chargers’ help, but it would be wise to remember their leader reported to the Viddasala.

And the Qun demanded that the Qun be spread to every corner of the world. Just like the Chant. Neither faith held particular allure to her, but fanatics didn’t care if you came willingly. Or died.

She shook herself from those scary thoughts and focused on the next grim task: She had to find this berserker and end him quickly, before she and her companions suffered the same fate as the agents in that cabin.

It was still daylight when they found the fort: It was just a tall wooden fence—over twelve feet tall.

They approached from the cliffs at the rear, leaving Dalish, Skinner, and the Inquisition archers above.

“If it goes to shit, run back to camp and Ritchie will lead you all out of here,” she told Quinn. “Don’t even bother to pack.”

Quinn placed her right fist over her heart. “I’ll see you soon, Ser.”

Lace picked her way down the hill slowly, her heart galloping in nervous anticipation. She had never challenged someone to a duel before; she wouldn’t have her usual advantage of surprise.

“They’ve got a logging stand back here.” Krem nodded toward it as they walked past. “None of the wood’s covered. Any decently-run group would make sure their firewood was usable.”

“Heh,” Bull chuckled.

But the disparaging remark didn’t make Lace feel any braver.

They skirted around the fence, giving the front gate a wide berth and stopping in the middle of a worn path that ran into the fort. Despite the gray skies, the serpentstone shone in the amulet Lace wore. She didn’t need to announce herself.

The two guards at the gate jumped to attention and shouted to someone inside, “Someone’s come with a challenge!”

A massive human stormed out of the gate, followed by more than a dozen men and women in blue uniforms. He was almost as tall and broad as Bull, minus the horns. His long, tangled blond beard did not hide his sneer.

“So, instead of fighting for his own honor, the infamous ‘ _Herald_ ’ sends a pet.”

Bull and Krem both growled at that. Grim and Stitches drew their swords and Lace waved them off.

“ _I_ am the Maker’s chosen,” he boasted. “ _I_ wield the Blade of Hessarian.”

The cult leader was strong and fast, brandishing a heavy two-handed blade as easily as a stick.

But she was faster.

His battle stance was wide and grounded, braced for maximum impact. He was accustomed to defending his head and chest. The light leather armor on his lower half would be no match for her Silverite blades. He didn’t even wear shin guards.

She’d have one chance to get close enough—after that, he’d figure out what she was up to and adjust his stance. Crush her.

“You murdered agents of the Inquisition.” She stepped closer. Almost close enough. “This cannot stand.”

He laughed. “I will feed you to the dogs!”

With a wordless war cry, he raised his sword high.


	14. Red Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works) and [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works). Thanks to SnuggleBonnet for editing tips.
> 
> Content includes blood, battle violence, and body horror (Red Templars).

 

 

The Blades leader raised his sword high, but Lace was already lunging low, between his thighs, daggers gripped sideways in her fists as she put her full weight into a swiping punch across his femoral arteries. The impact jarred her spine, but she kept moving, dragging the blades out along with her.

He fell to his back with a bloodcurdling shriek, which she cut short with a blade across his throat, flinching away from the fountain of blood she couldn’t escape.

The man’s wide eyes quickly dulled and his thrashing slowed, until only one of his feet twitched.

“Eww,” Grim said.

Bull gave a low, impressed whistle. “I’ve never seen that move work. Nice, Boss.”

Lace stared down at the brutal mess she’d made.

Dead. Sure, he’d deserved it. Hadn’t he? It had been quick.

But painful. Terrifying. Messy.

A bow was easier—both for the mark, and for the archer.

Lace dropped her daggers onto the dead man’s chest, uncertain whether she wanted to carry reminders of what she’d just done away from the bloody scene.

“My lady!” one of the guards exclaimed. All the cultists fell to their knees. “What are your orders?”

Oh, shit. She really could not deal with this right now. She brought up the best scowl she could muster.

“Lieutenant Grim here will inspect the fort. He will speak for me.”

“Not without a translator,” Stitches grumbled softly enough the cultists couldn’t hear him.

“Prepare for my return,” Lace announced to the crowd, and strode down the beach as fast as her trembling legs could take her.

Maker, she smelled like fresh blood and terror. Her vision blurred and her stomach turned.

Just out of sight from the fort, a stream ran across the rocky beach, from the inland down into the churning sea. She stumbled over a stone and landed on her hands and knees, gravel cutting into her gloves and leather pants.

She yanked off her belt pouch and pulled her boot knife, letting them fall to the wet ground, and dragged herself to the stream.

It was more gentle than the crashing waves on the shore, and only about waist-deep on her. It would be safe to go in.

So she did—fully clothed, and in over her head. Just rolled off the edge into the flowing water.

Frigid water rushed into her boots and down her collar. She sprang back up to the surface, gasping, and stood.

Heart racing, she trudged back up onto the bank, where she found Krem sitting on a boulder.

“The pouch is ruined,” he said, holding it up. “But the blood didn’t soak through to the contents.”

She nodded and sat on the ground to empty her boots. The water made them too heavy to walk far.

“Did it help?” Krem asked.

“No. No, it didn’t. Now I’m just cold.”

She shivered during their short walk back to the fort, where Skinner had commandeered a cabin for her to share with the other women in their crew and built up a roaring fire.

Skinner sat on one of the simple wooden bunks, petting a scrawny mabari who snuggled into her hip. Despite the dog’s need for nourishment, it was nearly as large as Lace.

Skinner tossed Lace a dry blanket and she caught it. “Thanks.”

She quickly stripped and hung all her clothes to dry. Lace carefully dried every inch of her armor with a soft cloth, to avoid rust spots. She sighed at the bloody condition of her belt pouch and set it on the mantle.

“Cute dog.” She wrapped the blanket around herself and sat with her back to the hearth while she unbraided her hair and wrung it out.

“A pup still,” Skinner said, offering the dog a tiny piece of nug jerky, which the animal immediately scarfed down. “Just a handful tonight, luv. You’ve got to get your stomach used to meals.

“Fucking shems had the dogs cooped up in tiny cages.” Skinner held a small bowl of water in front of the puppy, who took a few slurps, then licked her hand affectionately. “I freed them. Stitches an’ Grim are taking care of the bigger ones.”

The elf chuckled cruelly. “The shems damn near shit themselves over Grim’s ‘inspection.’ They groveled an’ fawned. ‘Will the lady approve of this? Will the lady approve of that?’”

“And, of course, all he did was grunt in return,” Lace said.

“Of course. The Chief’s handling the more complicated work, like assigning new guard rotations. Not much of a challenge.”

Skinner settled her blanket around the puppy like a nest. The mabari gave a happy sigh and immediately started to snore.

“They say you’re Andraste’s chosen, worthy to carry the Blade. That she shielded you from the larger warrior.”

“Really?” If they thought that of her, what would they think if a human showed up with the power of the Fade glowing green in his palm?

_Maker, please, let him be safe._

Skinner shrugged, unimpressed.

Dalish and Quinn came in, carrying extra blankets and a tray with steaming stew, and bolted the cabin door behind them.

The puppy’s nose poked out from under the blanket with a happy _woof_.

“Not for you,” Dalish said brightly, and the dog heaved a sigh. She handed the tray off to Skinner and turned to Lace.

“But I do have something for you, Ser.” She unhooked two sheaths from her belt and handed them over. “Your Silverite knives. Cremisius cleaned and dried them. You should keep them close.”

“Thank you.” Once she was clean, warm, and in friendly company again, she was glad to have them back; they were good weapons, and a gift from Leliana. She wouldn’t abandon them again.

They didn’t talk much as they ate every last drop of stew, blew out the candles, built up the fire, and headed for bed. They’d only known each other a few hours, and Skinner kept giving Quinn steely glances that made the human archer nervous.

Despite her own worried heart and spinning mind, Lace curled up into an exhausted, nude ball under the blanket Skinner had given her, with another blanket on top. She again held Leo’s compass in her hand, cradled to her cheek, as her heavy eyelids drifted shut.

Even with the occasional snores and whimpers from the pup nuzzled under the blankets with Skinner, Lace quickly fell asleep.

She slept like the Stone.

-

The next morning, Ritchie arrived with Lace’s saddle bags and one spare set of clothing in her size, which she was eager to put on. After her little dip in the stream, her smalls smelled like fish.

“What’s the move, Boss?” Bull asked over their morning porridge and bacon. The cultists may have been daft about the will of Andraste, but they sure did know how to stock a plentiful larder.

“You said there are two rifts on the coast. I want to map them for the Herald, make sure there aren’t any more.”

“Three rifts,” Dalish came over and handed Bull a fresh waterskin. He raised an eyebrow and she shrugged. “These elven ears of mine can hear the demons a good way off, Ser.”

“Okay, then,” Bull said. “Get close to the demon holes to confirm positions, but not close enough to get their attention. What else?”

“There’s a dwarven port on the south end. I want to check in with them, see if they know anything about the Venatori that the Blades don’t.”

“Uh, yeeaah, about the port,” Bull said.

She looked up from her porridge, mood sinking even further. “Spill it, Bull.”

“Templars took it three days ago. Red faces, nasty looking spikes in their armor. We think they’ve been trading with the Venatori. Maybe worse.”

Lace gritted her teeth. “ _Define_ worse.”

“Full-on military alliance, mixed raiding parties. Shipping unknown substances. Whatever the boats are heavy with, it’s not slaves.”

The spikes had to be red lyrium, just like what Karl had told her about after Redcliffe.

“We move on the port,” she said. “Now.”

-

They skirted the two highly-visible rifts, and didn’t go inside the cave Skinner assured them led to the third and final rift on the coast. When approaching the network of caves that led to the underground port, they hid amongst the trees on the hill.

Two archers in Templar armor and hoods patrolled the beach out front. Their faces glowed like red lyrium.

“That door’s the only way in, other than by sea, right?” Lace asked.

Bull nodded and drew his war hammer from his shoulder harness. “Dalish couldn’t find any others, and if Dalish can’t find it, it doesn’t exist to be found.”

“You flatter this simple archer, Ser,” Dalish grinned and batted her eyelashes, and Skinner snickered.

“What do you think,” Bull asked Lace, “Draw them out, or charge in?”

“Skinner, Quinn,” Lace nodded them over and they strung their bows. She raised her hand. On her signal, they simultaneously fired.

The Templars fell to the rocky ground with a clatter of armor, but no challenge or movement came from the port entrance.

“Nice,” Bull said.

Krem, Stitches, Grim, and Rocky hurried out to drag the bodies back into the cover of the trees.

“Got any stealth powder?” Lace asked.

Bull looked at her, askance. “In this rain? Besides, you’d need an entire shipment of it to cover a man my size.”

“Says a man who knows nothing of rogues,” Skinner smirked. “I could hide a woman twice your size.”

Bull scoffed, “Then you go in.”

Skinner grinned wider and looked to Lace, who nodded her assent. “Skinner slips in first, followed by Dalish, then Quinn. The rest of us charge the moment the Templars figure out we’re here.”

Grim grunted and Dalish gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “We’ll save some for you.”

Lace strung her bow and watched the other three women sneak in the entrance one at a time. Then the rest of them hurried down and pressed their backs to the wall on either side of the door.

“I’ve got your back,” Krem whispered in her ear and she nodded.

A loud thud and clatter of armor echoed out into the rain.

“What the—” a man’s exclamation ended with a gurgle, immediately followed by the sounds of two more bodies hitting the floor.

“Horns up!” Bull roared and barreled in. The rest of his men charged with wordless battle cries.

Lace swung into the doorway and loosed a shot into the deformed face of a Red Templar soldier. She slid left, clear of the entrance, once she was certain there wasn’t anyone between her back and the wall. Krem held position on the opposite side, weapon ready, watching her, the door, and the battle for any surprises.

It was quick and noisy. The surprised Templars didn’t stand a chance.

They stacked the eight bodies against the wall by the door and Dalish stationed herself by the stairs to the lower levels, listening for trouble.

“Ugly place,” Bull grunted.

“No,” Lace said, “I’ve seen paintings: The stonework’s nice, if they have all the torches lit.”

“Still prefer the tropics,” Bull said. “Palm trees, sand. Warm companionship.”

Lace rolled her eyes. “You can get back to that another time.”

“Someone else is here,” Skinner said, pointing to a small stone door at the far end of the foyer. Lace had missed it in the dim light. “Doesn’t smell like shems.”

“Humans have a particular smell?” Lace didn’t bother to hide her doubt. She looked to Dalish, who shook her head no.

“All right,” Lace sighed. “Everyone stand clear.”

She knocked and the door was yanked open from the other side.

A bolt of crystalized blue lyrium shot over her head. It would have gone straight through her chest if she’d been of human height.

“Stay back, you blighted nug-humpers!” a gruff male voice called out. “There’s plenty more where that came from!”

“It’s all right,” Lace shouted back. “We’re not Templars. We’re here to help.”

“Identify yourself!”

“Inquisition Scout Lace Harding. I’ve come with friends.” She didn’t know if Bull and his crew really counted as “friends,” but they weren’t a danger to this lot, only the Templars and Venatori.

“Harding? Dennett’s lass?”

Lace gave an exasperated sigh. “That’s not my official title, but, yes, I work with the horsemaster. I’m scouting the Storm Coast for the Inquisition.”

With a harrumph, a dwarf came out the windowless room. His short hair and long beard were white. His face was wrinkled with age, weather, and pockmarks. He held his crossbow at the ready, already loaded with another bolt of lyrium. The stock glowed with a blue rune.

Lace nodded at his weapon. “Nice crossbow. Dangerous stuff, even for a dwarf.”

“Rather die o’ lyrium poisoning than give in to those bastards. Besides, only one of us has gotten sick so far,” he jerked his head back toward the other room, “Miles.”

“I can help with that, Ser,” Stitches offered from a safe distance. “Depending on how far it has progressed, I’ve got some charcoal he could eat, draw out the excess lyrium.”

The dwarf narrowed his eyes for a moment, studying the human. He looked at his sword and herbal pouch.

“A healer with a sword, eh?”

“Yes, Ser.”

The dwarf grinned. “‘Ser.’ I like that. Better than ‘meddlesome animal.’ Fucking Templars. Oi, Miles! Get yer ugly arse out here so the healer can get rid o’ yer lyrium poisoning.”

“Have you _seen_ a mirror lately?” the other dwarf shot back, limping out with his arm around a dwarf woman wearing an Inquisition scout uniform. He was probably only a few years younger than the first dwarf. His thick black hair boasted distinguished streaks of white and was braided up on his head; aside from laugh lines and a couple days’ stubble, his tan skin was as smooth as a young man’s.

“I apologize for my brother’s manners, Mistress Harding. Timm’s never seen much point in politeness.”

“Waste o’ time,” Timm grunted.

The woman helped her sick companion sit on a boulder. “She’s a _scout_ , Uncle Miles, like me.”

“Oh. Sorry, Scout Harding.” He offered her a sheepish grin and his niece patted him on the arm.

Timm stuck his head back into the other room. “The rest o’ you lot can come out now. Go, secure the entrance.”

A dozen dwarves in port uniforms scurried out, some with daggers on their belts or bows in hand, others with makeshift weapons, including a shovel and a broken chair leg.

Timm strode over to his brother and punched him in the arm. “Don’ you go dyin’ on me, nug-humper. No honor in a dwarf who can’t handle his lyrium.”

“I’ll be okay. You’ll see.” Miles gave his brother a weak smile and wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him close.

Timm gave him a hurried kiss on his forehead and tromped off toward the entrance, calling over his shoulder, “Scout Harding, if you can clear those blighted arseholes out from the lower levels, we’ll give your Inquisition unlimited access to the port.

“Tina, meet me out front.”

“Have you heard from the Nightingale?” Lace startled at the whisper in her ear. The girl had snuck up on her as stealthily as Ava.

“Tina?” Lace asked, and the other scout nodded.

She looked no older than twenty. Lace had never heard of her, but her light armor definitely looked like something Leliana would put together. The Inquisition brooch that secured her hood could have been copied or stolen, but it was unlikely an outsider would think to include the Inquisition sigil in the little embellishments you could only see close up: a button on her pouch, a stencil on her shoulder harness. As for a stolen uniform, there weren’t many dwarves in the Inquisition, so it would be difficult to steal gear of the proper size, and Lace highly doubted this young woman would choose the Red Templars and Venatori over her family’s port.

Lace trusted her gut: Tina wouldn’t help a band of human supremacists.

“I was supposed to report in yesterday,” Tina said, “but I’ve spent the last three days in a windowless room with fourteen other people, dried rations, and a single chamber pot.”

“You get any sleep?” Lace asked.

“Yeah, in shifts. We’re all good to fight. So, the Nightingale?”

Lace decided on a half-truth: “Hold the Storm Coast, wait for instructions.”

“There were about two-dozen foot soldiers here when we locked ourselves in,” Tina said. “Don’t know if they’ve welcomed any reinforcements since then.”

If all went well today, Lace would tell her about Ava and Leliana. And then send one of those pigeons to the King of Ferelden.

She really did not want to send a pigeon to the King of Ferelden.

_Dear King Alistair,_

_Leliana sent me to the Storm Coast to look for Grey Wardens, but the Blades of Hessarian killed our people. Sorry, I don’t know how to close the rifts._

_P.S. I haven’t heard from Leliana, and think she might be dead._

“Tina!” Timm called from the entrance, “Will you move your ham?”

Tina winked at Lace and trotted off.

Stitches knelt down in front of the poisoned dwarf and pulled some vials of charcoal out of his pouch, along with instruments she didn’t recognize. Dalish hovered behind the human and Skinner plunked down on the ground cross-legged to watch.

Krem and Rocky held a hushed conversation at the entrance. Bull stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest. Grim stood beside him, a puzzled frown on his face as he watched the healer tend to the ill dwarf.

Grim emitted a single-syllable grunt.

“Nah, man,” Bull said. “Dwarves are resistant, not immune.”

How Bull could understand the question without hand gestures or writing, Lace didn’t know. Perhaps there were some more subtle physical clues to Grim’s communication. She joined them.

“Yes, ‘resistant, not immune.’ Most magic runs over me like a harmless wind, but fire and ice still burn and chill. Elf root is an herbal remedy, close to the earth, like us, so pretty effective. The only thing we’re truly immune to is the raw Fade: We can’t dream. Even Surfacers sleep like the Stone. I’ve read stories about your dreams. That’s some pretty weird shit; I half think it’s all made up.”

Bull grinned down at her. “It’s all true.”

Grim’s frown turned pensive. He nodded his thanks and went off to join Krem and Rocky.

“What’s the move, Boss?” Bull asked.

“When Stitches gives the all-clear for his patient, we go downstairs and kill all the Red Templars. I doubt we’ll find any who haven’t got the sickness, but if we do, try to take them alive for questioning.”

It was a grisly responsibility that gave her no pleasure, but it needed to be done. Perhaps not cleanly, but swiftly. Decisively.

“And if they have any Venatori Enchanters with them?” he asked.

“What do you think?” He’d had more experience with the Venatori than she had.

“Break their necks before they know you’re there. Fucking mages aren’t worth the risk. ‘Cept for Dalish, here.”

“I’m not a maaygge,” Dalish protested.

“Then what’s with the glowing crystal at the tip of your staff?” Bull asked.

“It’s a _bow_. The crystal’s for aiming. Ancient elven trick. You wouldn’t understand.”

The rest of the Chargers sniggered, clearly used to this sort of exchange.

Stitches helped Miles to his feet. “No strenuous activities for the next week, Ser. Get as much sun as you can. Even if it’s overcast, gray daylight is better than none. No ale, no elfroot for the next month; too hard on the kidneys and liver.”

“Thank you, Master Healer.” The dwarf bowed. “You and your friends have done my family’s port a great service. We are forever in your debt.”

“Only if they free the port,” Timm grumbled, tromping back in and wrapping an arm around his brother’s waist. “Git yer arse into hiding in the trees, Miles, just in case there are more o’ those fuckers. Tina’s got a warm blanket for you.”

They limped out the front door.

Lace’s crew moved as stealthily as they could down the narrow stone stairs into the lower levels. Rushing waterfalls covered their footfalls. Each level was narrow, with a few empty rooms here and there. Down the middle ran a swift, steep river; the ends of broken stone bridges jut out over the water, no longer connecting the near half of the port with the other.

The next fight wasn’t as easy as the last.

A Templar met them on the stairs before they could reach the next level. His shout spurred stampeding boots from below. Bull kicked him down into his allies and barreled past them with a roar, swinging his weapon in a whirlwind to topple several men at once.

Lace couldn’t get a clear shot at the enemies behind him, so she dropped her bow, drew her daggers, and rushed past him to harry a pair of archers standing in front of another broken bridge. They didn’t see her at first, not until she fell to her back and kicked one in the front of the knee caps with a sickening crunch. He screamed and fell back over the edge.

It was a long drop into the rushing water below. His cry stopped abruptly when he hit the cliff face on his way down.

The other archer spun toward where his partner had been, panicked confusion on his face. Three arrows hit him at once and he hit the stone floor, smashing the back of his head.

A mighty bellow rushed into the room with charging feet that shook the floor like a druffalo herd.

Lace leapt to her feet, spun to face the unknown danger.

A behemoth of a beast wore the tattered remains of Templar robes on its lower body. It was one giant spire of Red Lyrium that expanded into a thick head with spiky protrusions. One big arm was recognizable as once having been a human limb; the other was a massive club with a head bigger than Bull’s hammer.

“Fuck!” Bull shouted above the cacophony of the other fighters. He dodged the monster’s club as it swung an arm across the narrow room, felling allies and Chargers alike. Grim hit the floor and Rocky pulled him clear.

Lace grabbed a crumbling brick from the bridge railing and chucked it at the creature’s head. It bounced off and the beast turned with a roar.

She couldn’t see if it had a face, but it seemed to find her.

And ran straight for her.

“MOVE!” Bull shouted.

She fell to one knee instead, braced with her daggers in her fists. The beast’s legs were barely thicker around than she was. Maybe she could hamstring it.

It swung wide when it reached her, missing her head by a few inches as she drove her knives into the back of its nearest leg. The Silverite cut through the Red Lyrium like it was mere leather and sunk into fleshy bits beneath.

Still mid-swing, the beast howled in pain. Its club crashed down into the bridge railing.

The stones shifted under Lace’s knee.

Then the world gave way and she was falling over the edge.

“ _Lace!_ ” Krem’s terrified scream followed her into the abyss.


	15. Where the Sky was Held Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta reader for this chapter, [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works). Thanks to [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works) and [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata/works) for all the writerly chats.
> 
>  

As she fell, Lace desperately stabbed her Silverite daggers at the rockface, jarring her shoulder and sending a sharp pain up into her neck. The left blade broke from the hilt and clattered down the wall into the churning river below. The right blade delved deep into a soft spot in the rock. She clung to it with her cramped fist, clutching for a fingerhold on the jagged wall with her other gloved hand.

When she tried to find a toehold, her boots slipped off the wall, her full weight yanking on her right arm. She cried out as another stabbing pain shot from her shoulder into her neck.

“Lace!” Krem was on his stomach over the edge. Bull held his waist and Skinner handed him a rope with a large loop tied into its end.

“Under the left armpit and over the right shoulder,” Bull called down. “Don’t let go.”

“Yeah,” Lace panted out, focusing on the rope instead of the tearing pinch of her shoulder. “That had occurred to me.”

Bull grinned down, but Krem’s panicked expression did not change.

Lace slipped her left arm through the loop and pulled it over her head to rest the other side on her screaming shoulder.

“Now let go,” Bull said.

With a whimper, Lace forced her hand to open. Her arm fell limp at her side and she jolted down another few inches, the rope pinching underneath her left arm _and_ into her injured shoulder.

Krem pulled her up and wrapped an arm around her.

“Are you okay?” He held her a little too close, a little too tight, his worried breath warm on her scratched and sweaty face.

He wiped blood from her cheek with a calloused thumb. Krem never wore gloves and his rough hands showed it, but he was downright tender with his touch. The look in his eye was—well, shit.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m fine.”

Krem cleared his throat and took a respectful step back, eyes brimming with a bittersweet understanding that twisted Lace’s gut. She’d never had to break someone’s heart before. Decline lecherous advances, yes; but hurt someone who genuinely cared? Never. It made her chest ache. She hadn’t realized he’d wanted more than friendship.

 _Every man’s responsible for his own feelings, Lace_ , her dad had told her gruffly the first time she’d punched a boy for stealing a kiss. _Don’t feel guilty about his bullshit._

She missed him. And her mom, who was probably crocheting some frilly little underthing for her that she’d never wear. When she’d been stationed in the Hinterlands, she could drop in on them at least once a week, see how things were going on at home and with their Redcliffe Farms partnership.

If Leliana was truly gone, Lace didn’t have a swift way to contact Inquisition agents in the Hinterlands; it would be a very long time before she could send her parents word that she was all right.

Stitches offered her a hand to help her to her feet. When she lifted her arm, she yelped out in pain, then tucked it in close to her side as she got up on her own.

“Can I poke at your spine a moment?” he asked.

“Sure, why the fuck not?” she gritted out through her teeth.

He smoothed his open palm down the back of her leather coat, from neck to waist, sending waves of soreness up her neck, but it wasn’t as bad as—

“Shit!” she cried out again when he pressed a thumb into her shoulder blade. Her vision went white with stars. “ _Warn_ me before you’re gonna do shit like that.”

“I can put your back in order, but I’m no mage: the stretched tendons in your arm are going to have to heal on their own.”

“Magic wouldn’t work anyway,” she panted out. “What do you mean, ‘back in order?’”

“Your spine is out of alignment. That’s what the sharp pain is about. I can push it into the correct position.

“Fine,” she spat out. “Do it.”

He had her cross her arms over her chest with her hands on her shoulders. Facing her, he cupped her elbows in one hand and placed his other over her upper back. If not for the odd placement of his hands, it would have been an embrace.

She tensed, ready for more pain.

“I need you to curl forward, blow all your breath out. It will be easier if you relax into it, Ser. This shouldn’t hurt.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, and did as he asked.

Stitches pushed his hands toward each other. With an audible crunch, all Lace’s muscles went from tense to lax.

“Wow,” she said when she got her breath back. “That’s amazing.” She gingerly lifted her arm above her head. Her shoulder was sore, but there was no sharp pain.

“No more bow or blades today, Ser.” Stitches handed her an elfroot salve, “That cut on your face doesn’t need a needle, I don’t think. Your arm will be sore for a few days.”

“Hey,” Bull said with an exaggerated pout, “Why don’t you ever hug me when you fix my back?”

“You’re too big to handle unless you’re lying down, Ser,” Stitches deadpanned. Bull grinned and Skinner cackled.

Bull nudged at the dead archer with his toe. “Well, this guy’s lying down forever. Let’s make sure the others are that way, too. Be right back, Boss.”

While the men checked and stacked the bodies out of the way of the stairwell, Skinner, Dalish, and Quinn hovered around Lace. Their presence made it a little less scary to not have her bow in a hostile place. She gingerly took off her gloves and reached up to touch the new bloody cut on her cheek, parallel to her old scar.

“Here,” Dalish said. “Let me do it.”

Dalish cleaned the cut with water from her waterskin and rubbed the elf root salve over it.

“What’s this other scar?” Dalish asked. “Horse’s hoof?”

“Human fist. He had on a nasty set of rings and I sassed him. Then Mistress Elaina broke his hand and took away his rings. He never bought a horse from Redcliffe Farms again.”

Quinn gasped, Dalish gave Lace a sympathetic look, and Skinner glared.

Lace shrugged. It had been a long time ago, and they had bigger bullies to face.

One more level down and they finally reached the docks. Lace stayed at the rear, her boot knife in hand, behind cover provided by the “archers”—she would call Dalish an archer as long as Dalish wanted her to—and watched the final, swift fight for the port.

“Who wants to volunteer to lug the bodies up the stairs?” Bull asked and all the Chargers groaned.

Lace sighed. “He’s joking, you guys. Even I can see that. Load them up in the boats and the dwarves can bury them at sea, far from shore.”

“Yeah, like she said,” Bull grinned.

While cleanup went on at the underground dockside, Lace trudged up the stairs to get some fresh air. The roar of the behemoth still echoed in the back of her mind. She rubbed at her sore shoulder, wondering what to do next.

Timm and Miles’ crew of dwarves reported no more Red Templar sightings. Lace gave them the all-clear to reclaim their offices, but Timm elected to stay outside with Miles and a pair of guards, to make sure his brother got as much sun as the healer had instructed.

“Ser, I’ve got something you should see.” Tina murmured from behind her, but Lace was too tired to be startled.

“Don’t sneak up on me, Tina,” she said wearily. “Practice your stealth on someone else.”

“Yes, Ser. Wish I had better news. Looks like the Wardens were here, but moved on.” Tina handed her a silver brooch shaped like a griffon. Well, if she’d been looking for signs of the Grey Wardens, Tina definitely was Leliana’s agent; she could only have received that assignment directly from the Nightingale.

“I don’t know what was so urgent they’d let such a treasure drop without notice,” Tina said, tapping the brooch with a finger, “but there were some torn letters at their abandoned camps, too: They’re hunting for a man.”

The damp pages she handed over next were written in trade tongue, but their meaning was as cryptic as another language.

“Who?” Lace asked. “Who is it they seek?”

“I don’t know. But the sods left without taking care of the darkspawn out here.”

“Darkspawn? Here?” Lace’s heart jumped into her throat and she glanced up the nearest hill, half expecting a horde to race down it.

“Taken care of,” Tina assured her. “My uncles helped me bury the entrances under a mountain’s worth of rubble. The straggles were killed and burned. That’s why I was at the port when the Templars arrived.”

“Communications have stopped,” Lace blurted out, desperate to share the news with someone other than Krem, “and I don’t know Leliana’s status.”

Tina sighed and rubbed her forehead. “How long?”

“I should have had word at least three days ago, and seen an agent from Haven before that.”

“You think the Chantry attacked?” Tina asked.

“I don’t know. Did Leliana say why she needed news of the Wardens?”

“I assumed personal interest, not a Venatori connection.”

“We have to tell King Alistair.”

“Whoa! That’s way above my paygrade,” Tina laughed. “I’m just a port clerk who’s good at sneaking around.”

“And I’m just a farm girl, but I need to send it.”

Saying it out loud didn’t make it any easier. That night, quill held in tense fingers, Lace found herself throwing yet another rejected scrap of paper into the fire in her cabin.

She held Leo’s gold compass in her other hand, worrying her thumb across the lid. She hadn’t known heartache could be literal.

-

Dorian sat beside Karl’s cot, under a thin tent that rattled with periodic wind busts that snuck through the sheltered clearing.

Waiting for him to wake. Praying for him to wake.

On the terrifying trudge through the storm, he had been fine as long as he heard Karl and Leo talking behind him, even if he couldn’t catch the exact words they spoke. It had meant Karl was still alive. Of course he was happy the others had survived. Naturally, he was very happy about that. But it was Karl who made him _worry_.

Everything about this battle had been wrong.

Karl should not have been in front of him, or behind him as Haven crumbled into chaos. He should not have sent him ahead and stayed behind with the dragon. Certainly, it was sound battle strategy, but it was still _wrong_. They should be side by side, as they had been at Redcliffe.

“Hey, Sparkler,” Varric slipped in, swiftly smoothed the tent flaps together to keep out the winter. He handed Dorian a mug. “Ava sends hot cider for the Herald, with instructions to let it cool a few minutes first. ‘Nothing too hot or too cold,’ she says.”

“Thanks, Varric,” Karl’s dry voice cracked and Dorian’s blood rushed for joy through his ears. He was awake. And cognizant.

“You gave us a scare, Trevelyan.” Varric tucked the thick fur blanket tighter around Karl’s feet. “Don’t go thinking foolish heroics will get you into my next book. You’re too kind-hearted to make for interesting reading.”

Karl’s wavering exhale might have been a laugh. “Did she take care of you?”

Varric raised his hand, showed off his unbandaged wrist with a wink. “That rogue knows her stuff. You up for a visit from Chuckles, if he promises not to make you laugh? He’s been pacing a dent in the snow for hours.”

“Yeah, just for a minute.”

The dwarf stuck his head out of the tent and motioned for Solas to come in. The scowling elf had enough agitated mana bubbling in his veins to fell a giant. He had yet to speak, but his power was almost deafening. Friend or foe, one did not want to face that kind of short fuse in a small space.

Wary, Dorian stood and set the mug on his stool.

Karl turned his head. “Solas. Thank you. For your last potion.”

The elf pursed his lips and nodded. “The storm has passed, for the moment, and Cassandra and Cullen are anxious to depart. Josephine and Leliana are soothing tempers as best they can, but we must have a plan to move soon. They look for the Herald’s guidance.”

“The Commander has made you his messenger?” Dorian asked. He couldn’t fathom Solas tolerating such an insult.

Solas gave him a droll look. “No, I simply have some information that would serve the Herald’s purpose. The Inquisition’s people need shelter—well-fortified shelter—and I know where to find it.”

“Found in the Fade, no doubt.” Dorian didn’t know why he was pushing. Heckling Solas would certainly prove a foolish exercise.

Solas’ lips twitched into a fleeting smile. “Of course. It is a fortress to the north, named Skyhold. It lies empty at the moment, but could easily be repaired and held by your current numbers. Your people can make the march. If you mobilize soon.”

“Thank you, Solas.” Karl struggled to sit. Dorian rushed to his side to prop him up. “We can leave with the dawn, if Cassandra thinks we’re ready.”

Solas raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps it would be best if everyone had a day to recover first, Herald. Some of us have been injured, and magic is no substitute for sleep.”

Karl smiled and leaned back more heavily on Dorian, his forehead feverish against Dorian’s neck. “Yes, some of us have. Thank you, again, Solas. I will see you tomorrow.”

The elf and dwarf bid them goodnight and left.

“That cider still warm?” Karl’s chest rumbled against him, a great comfort in the cold night.

He helped Karl sip some of the lukewarm cider and recline again, hand cradling his over-hot neck so he didn’t flop on the way back down.

Karl’s piercing brown gaze was a welcome sign of life, as was the way he reached for Dorian’s hand and held it. “ _Your_ people, Solas said, not our. He saved my life. But, should I trust him?”

“Only when you must. I usually expect everyone to stab me in the back. Safer that way.”

“Usually?” Karl asked weakly, eyes fluttering shut again. “There are some worthy of your trust?”

“Yes,” Dorian breathed out, smoothing his thumb back and forth across the side of Karl’s hand. “You,” he whispered.

But Karl slept again.

-

Karl woke alone in his cozy tent on the snow-covered mountain, a content smile on his face. He’d dreamt that Dorian had held his hand. Kissed his hand.

Reality rushed back all too soon: They needed to march again, find this fortress Solas claimed was fit and ready for them. And then find Corypheus and figure out how to kill him.

He was sore and tired, but able to get up and dress himself without too much effort. As he strapped his blades on over his armor, Varric came in with another mug of cider.

“Ten-second warning,” Varric said. “Cassandra’s on her—”

The tent flap flew open and the Seeker strode in.

“Make that no-second warning,” Varric grumbled, handing Karl the warm mug and sitting down on the stool by the cot, his crossbow cradled in his lap.

“Herald, it is imperative we settle the issue of leadership.”

To buy himself some time, Karl slowly sipped the cider. It was too sweet, but he’d take anything warm to steel himself for a conversation with Cassandra.

“The Left and Right Hands of the Divine are not enough?” Karl asked. “Are you suggesting we choose a Divine from amongst the refugees?” A wicked thought came to him and he spoke with a grin before he could think better of it. “Or perhaps one of Connor’s people?”

Varric raised an eyebrow and Cassandra waved away Karl’s suggestion. “Do not distract me with jokes. The _Inquisition_ needs a leader; the one who has already been leading it. Herald, you need to be our Inquisitor.”

The cider in his stomach sloshed hard. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am, and the three advisors are in agreement.”

“I will not be a Chantry puppet!” Karl set the mug down on table by the cot and clenched his fists, ready for battle.

“You said yourself we are not part of the Chantry,” Cassandra said, hands on her hips. “You need the title, as much as we need your Marked hand. You have already accepted the responsibility. If you do not accept the title that goes with it, the Inquisition will splinter. Unless we are united, we will be easy prey for Corypheus.”

Karl snorted his disbelief. “If you think Rutherford will take orders from me, you’re mad.”

“Commander Cullen has agreed: _You_ are our only hope.”

“That’s not a glowing commendation,” Karl shot back, then sighed. “But I suppose I can’t abandon the mages to him. I’m the one who dragged them all to Haven.”

Defeated and tired, he soothed his hand over his scalp. He hadn’t been able to shave for a few days and wiry curls had started to sprout there already. Had his mother been present, she would have thrown a fit about it.

At least Cullen wasn’t his mother.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll be your voided Inquisitor. But when we’re done, I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Cassandra flinched and a pang of guilt ran through his chest. She was doing her best and had shielded him in battle more than once.

“Once the danger has passed, Corypheus is dead and the rifts gone, I will leave you alone. But let us tend to today first. There is a ceremony and sword for you. Your people await.” She left the tent as abruptly as she’d entered.

“You know what?” Karl said, anger bubbling up again. “The Chantry’s ceremonial sword is the last straw. I’m not going to worry about bruising her feelings anymore.”

“Big day’s just getting started.” Varric reverently ran a gloved hand along the back of his polished crossbow, “Ready, Bianca?”

Karl frowned. “That’s not healthy, you know, naming your weapon after a woman.”

“She’s the one who named it,” Varric said mildly. He headed for the tent flap. “Ready to meet your admirers, Your Inquisitorialness?”

Varric’s new nickname did nothing to sooth him. Karl’s frustration bubbled furiously in his chest like a stew left over a campfire for too long.

“I’ll never be ready. Let’s just get this insulting formality over with.”

He stood on a snowy, frigid mountaintop, surrounded by fearful refugees and grim soldiers who looked at him like he had all the answers. What a joke. At least Cassandra’s speech was quick. No one seemed to mind his stern expression when Leliana handed him the gaudy sword.

He held the enormous weapon aloft and spoke his first words as Inquisitor.

“Corypheus intends to be a god, to rule over us all. Corypheus must be stopped. And we will stop him.”

-

The march to Skyhold was cold and tiring, but the sun shone brightly and Leo was willing to march right off the edge of the world, if that’s where Karl was headed. Ace and Pepper plodded along through the snow beside them, acting as pack horses for the refugees’ supplies. His mom would have thrown a fit to see noble mounts used for such menial labor instead of sport. Leo smiled to himself, happy at the little bit of rebellion no one other than Karl would understand.

It was past time he helped with a little rebellion.

His hand drifted past the empty spot on his belt where his grandmother’s compass had once hung, and he wished he had some sign that Lace and her crew had made it safely off the mountain.

“Funny,” Karl said, shading his eyes with his hand, “that the sun still shines while the world is ending.”

“We’ll stop him.”

“I almost believe you.” Karl sighed. “Dead Templars, so many dead Templars, Leo. I wanted them gone, not dead. He made them into monsters.”

“We’ll stop him,” Leo said again. “We will.”

The ruin Solas led them to was in better shape than Leo had thought it would be. One of the front gates had fallen, the iron hinges rusted, and some of the upper battlements were crumbling, but the outer walls’ masonry was perfectly smooth, with no crevices for invaders to get a handhold.

Dorian stood at Karl’s side, uncharacteristically silent, hunched over in many layers of coats. He anxiously watched Karl, like Karl might disappear into thin air. Leo knew the feeling.

“Tarasyl’an Te’las,” Ava said, looking up at Skyhold’s broken gates. “Where the sky is kept.”

“You know of it?” Solas asked, head tilted with open curiosity.

“I have not dreamt here, but I have been told its name.”

Solas frowned. “By whom? Such knowledge is . . . unique.”

“Cannot you hear Mythal’s voice on the wind, hahren?” Ava asked, without waiting for him to answer. “She tells me its name, but not why it is here. The Stone’s bones are old here, Inquisitor. I know of an Arcanist who might find it cozy.”

“Oh?” Karl asked skeptically. “I should bring in another magical advisor? Because they’d like the rocks?”

Ava smiled. “She’s also the Grand Enchanter’s best friend, off on a dangerous task, and I’m sure he’d be eternally grateful to receive news she’s alive and recruited into the Inquisition. Leliana’s people can arrange safe passage.”

Leo wasn’t sure if it was some kind of elven faux pax to ask about “hearing” some ancient god’s voice on the wind, and he knew nothing about magical advisors, so he stuck with the practical: Exactly how sturdy was their new “home?”

“How did the fortress survive the mountain’s harsh winters?” he asked. “Magic?”

“Feels like it,” Karl rubbed at his marked hand with his thumb. “The Veil is different here. Stronger, perhaps, but it’s like an open door at the same time.”

“Yes,” Ava said. “The Veil is thicker here, yet the Fade is easier to access. Usually, the Fade is more accessible where the Veil is _thin_. I wonder what I’d find if I dreamed deep here, wandered to when the place was built.”

“We should not dream too deeply here,” Solas said gruffly, stepping to her side and leaning on his staff. “Who knows what horrors we may awaken.”

Ava shrugged. “I won’t be here long enough to find out. I leave within the hour to join Scout Harding.”

Leo’s heart pounded faster. “You’re going after Lace? Can I come with you?”

He suddenly realized everyone within earshot was staring at him: Karl, Dorian, Ava, Solas, Varric. One mention of Lace’s name and he’d forgotten his promise to never leave his brother’s side. He was sunk.

Karl grinned and winked at him. “We should both go. She was mapping the rifts for me. We might as well make some progress somewhere, since we don’t know where Corypheus will strike next. Maybe she and Krem found some Venatori we could follow.”

Ava crossed her arms over her chest. “I leave in fifty-nine minutes, Inquisitor. You can try to keep up.”

Karl’s smile grew wider. “Oh, Leo and I can keep up. How about you, Varric? I could use your bow and Cassandra’s sword arm.”

“Great,” Varric scowled, “more camping. In nature. With the Seeker who kidnapped me. I’ll remember this, Inquisitor.”

“Solas,” Karl turned toward the elf. “This place makes my hand itch. Think you can figure out why while we’re gone?”

Solas raised a haughty eyebrow. “Of course.”

“Come on, Dorian,” Karl dragged the Tevinter toward the horses. “Let’s find our stuff and get ready.”

Leo followed them while the others wandered into the keep to explore. Cassandra and the advisors were huddled around a stack of crates, surrounded by refugees and Inquisition agents clamoring for their attention.

Sera and Tama hid behind a wagon with a half-dozen human children, who giggled impishly as the elven archer dipped scraps of cloth into a jar of honey. She said something about “General Uptight,” and Leo desperately hoped to be on his way down the mountain before Cullen discovered whatever Sera and the kids had planned. Judging from Karl’s sly grin, his brother would have _enjoyed_ sticking around to find out, but, thank the Maker, Karl kept walking.

“You would like me to accompany you?” Dorian’s voice was strained, hesitant, and Karl’s smile faded into worry.

“Sorry, I presumed. I assumed. I like having you at my side. I didn’t ask if you wanted the same. What you wanted.”

They stood so close. Did they even notice how often they touched each other, checked on whether the other one was okay? Leo considered leaving, so they could figure it out without an audience, but leaving now would be even more awkward.

Dorian scowled, “Of course I’m going with you. And no more of that heroic nonsense where you stay behind to punch dragons.”

Karl’s answering smile was the brightest Leo had seen since they were children. “I promise, Dorian. Whatever we do next, we’ll do together.”

With an internal sigh of relief, Leo started unloading the horses. The sooner they left, the sooner they could go find Lace.

-

“Food’s up, Ser,” Dalish came in with a tray of stew and Lace abandoned her third attempt at her letter to King Alistair. If no additional ideas came to her during dinner, the latest draft would just have to do. She’d seal it up tonight and send the pigeon off in the morning.

A few minutes after they’d settled down to eat, there was a double-tap on the window pane. A raven pecked at window. It had a red crest.

Skinner frowned. “Weird bird.”

“A message from Leliana!” Lace leaped to her feet and went outside to collect the raven and bring it inside.

Skinner’s dog sat up on her bunk, panting and wagging.

“Not for you,” Dalish said, and the mabari plopped down with a harrumph, burying back under the blanket.

Lace removed the message from the raven’s leg and set it down on the floor. The bird hopped over to the dog’s water dish for a drink, then hopped over to the door and pecked at it.

“Just wait,” Lace said. “I want to send a reply.”

“Do you think the bird can understand you, Ser?” Quinn asked with a pained expression, as if she was concerned for Lace’s sanity.

Dalish and Skinner exchanged a knowing smile.

“I always talk to animals like they’re people,” Lace said. “Don’t you? They get the tone, even if not the words.”

The raven squawked once, flapping its wings in irritation. It walked around in a circle, then strut over to the hearth and curled up to rest, beak under wing.

Lace unfurled the scrap of parchment and held it out to read it by the firelight.

_We live. Haven has fallen. New location has been secured. Details following via messenger._

Her stomach and head flip-flopped places with each other. They were alive, but—fallen? Fallen how? Was it the Elder One? What about the villagers who called Haven home?

“Is something wrong, Ser?” Quinn asked.

“The Inquisition’s base of operations has been moved. Leliana’s sending someone with details.”

Lace tossed Leliana’s message into the fire and tore a scrap from Jasper’s log book to write back.

_Rifts confirmed. V and T confirmed. Camp established. C and B recruited. Port liberated. Awaiting messenger._

When she approached the raven, it immediately popped up and hopped over, extending a leg for her to secure the little silver canister to its leg with a strip of leather. She opened the door and it hopped out and took to the sky.


	16. Demands of the Qun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, SnuggleBonnet, [geekyblackchic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyblackchic), [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata), [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd), and [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris).
> 
> Content includes battle violence, blood, and intense feelings about the casualties of war.
> 
>  

“What are you thinking?” Karl asked Connor.

“That I’d rather be in Denerim, eating cheese and exchanging bad jokes with Alistair.”

They stood on a crumbling wall overlooking Skyhold’s main courtyard. Some of the people bustled frantically about below; others sat dejectedly on broken steps or lay by the healers’ tents—sleeping or dead.

“But I know my duty,” Connor said. “After Fiona’s ridiculous alliance with Tevinter, the free mages cannot ally with the King. However much I yearn to return to my cousin, I will not abandon my people.” He stood straight, unbowed by the long march and cold weather, as calm and competent as an Arl holding court over a trivial matter in a warm throne room.

It must be a lonely burden. At least Karl had Leo. And Dorian. Connor had no one.

“Rest assured, Inquisitor, when the time comes to battle Corypheus, my people will follow you.”

“That’s not why I invited you up here, Grand Enchanter. I’m leaving in a few minutes and I wanted to know—to be sure . . .” Karl sighed for what felt like the hundredth time in the last hour, trying to sort through all the frantic feelings and worrying responsibilities that plagued his mind. “Do you feel safe here?”

Connor gave him a wry smile. “You refer to the former Knight-Captain and his Templar recruits.”

“Yes.” An itch in his Marked palm reminded him of another danger. “And the Veil is odd here.”

“Different, but not dangerous. We are safe enough, my lord. The safest we’ve been in more than three years. Please, try to leave that worry behind when you ride out to close the rifts.”

Karl nodded, but the worrisome weight in his chest did not change.

Connor peered down the battlements’ stone steps. “You better hurry. Looks like your party might leave without you.”

Ava stood at the front gate, talking with Leliana. Leo, Dorian, Varric, and Cassandra all stood behind her with the horses, ready to depart.

Karl hesitated. Solas’ comment about “ _your_ people” had been playing through his head since the elf had left his tent. “Connor, would you say Solas is trustworthy?”

The mage raised an eyebrow. “The elven apostate who appears to have no affinity for other mages, nor patience for other elves? You can trust him to be loyal to himself, Inquisitor. He may be willing to fight alongside you, but make no mistake: it is for his survival, not yours.”

That wasn’t reassuring at all.

“Inquisitor, if I may have a word?” Mother Giselle’s Orlesian lilt drifted up as she climbed the battlements’ stone steps.

“Doesn’t look like she’s giving you a choice,” Connor said. “Want me to stay? Two against one? I can make disparaging remarks about her hat.”

Karl laughed, despite his nervousness. “Yeah, but I doubt she’ll talk in front of you. Don’t let me keep you from your duties any longer.”

“My lord,” Connor bowed and left, walking past Mother Giselle without a word as she reached the top of the steps.

“Is there something Sister Leliana cannot help with?” Karl asked, struggling to keep his voice polite. The Chantry mother stood between him and the stairs, his only means of escape, save jumping over the wall and down onto the jagged mountain below. “I’m leaving immediately, to close rifts and seek out the Venatori who killed the Divine.”

“Your burden is heavy, Inquisitor, yet I must ask you for one more favor, for the sake of your friend, the Tevinter.”

Panic clutched at his chest and he answered more sharply than he intended. “What do you want?”

“Perhaps the boy has told you he is estranged from his family.”

Anger swiftly replaced fear. “Lord Pavus is a man, not a boy, and his family is none of your business.”

Mother Giselle sighed and shook her head. It was exactly the same way Lady Trevelyan sighed before declaring a just punishment on the unrighteous. Karl swallowed and reined in his temper. Giselle was not his mother. Just a meddlesome priest with a message.

“Please, Inquisitor,” she took a folded piece of parchment from her pocket and handed it to him. “This came to me at the Crossroads and we have not had a private moment since. A letter from Magister Pavus, asking that Dorian meet a family representative. Only to talk, Your Worship. It would be best if the—if Lord Pavus not know of the meeting until he is there.”

“I’m not going to lie to him,” Karl said, opening the letter. He read it quickly. “ _They_ are ‘alarmed?’ What the fuck is this, ‘ _He will bring the boy to us, somewhere private._ ’” Mother Giselle frowned at his cursing.

“I will consider telling Dorian his family wants him to meet with a private retainer so he can be carted off to ‘ _talk_ ,’” Karl spat the last word out like poison. He folded the letter up into a tight square and put it in his pocket.

Heart and mind churning more than ever, Karl made his way down to the courtyard.

“Hey, you,” Sera waited for him at the base of the steps, hands tucked into her armpits to stay warm. “Your bruther said you wouldn’t mind me sitting this one out. See, Tama likes the kids, and I like having the walls. Walls bigger than Corypheshit’s archdemon, yeah? You’ve got more troops there already. That’s enough, innit?”

If only everyone could be so honest.

Karl’s chest warmed; the furious beat of his heart slowed.

“It’s okay, Sera. I’ll miss you, too. And you can show me all the secret passages you’ve found when I get back. Perfect for spying on Curly.” Varric’s nickname for Commander Cullen had spread across Skyhold like wildfire on a dry plain, and Karl was definitely not above spreading it even further.

“Heh, heh, heh,” Sera snorted. “The next time you go to a real city and not some dank camp, we’ll go with you.” With that, she ran off toward the keep. She suddenly stopped and spun around. “Oi, mage-y!”

Dorian cleared his throat and answered dryly, “Yes, my lady?”

Sera sniggered at that. “Keep ‘em alive, eh?”

Dorian smiled. “I will.”

Karl turned away, throat tight. He was going to have to show Dorian the letter as soon as possible.

Sera sprinted up the keep steps.

“Just some last-minute cloak-and-dagger stuff from the Spy Queen and we’ll be ready,” Leo said, handing Karl Ace’s reins. While Ava was finishing up with Leliana, the Cadash siblings had come to bid Varric farewell.

“I’ll take care of it personally,” Cappi said, with no hint of his usual flirty smile. He clapped a hand on Varric’s shoulder, “Maker guide your steps.”

“Yeah,” Varric patted his arm. “You, too.”

Cappi and his party headed for the musty outbuilding that was to be the tavern. Crews were already clearing rubble and patching the roof.

“What was that all about?” Cassandra asked, nose flared and lips pinched.

Varric shrugged. “Ah, dwarf stuff. Nothing important.” He climbed up on the mounting block someone had set next to his horse, but he still had trouble getting his foot into the stirrup.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and swung herself up into her own saddle with practiced grace. “You are a terrible liar, Varric.”

“Of course I am, Seeker. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Varric finally clambered up into his own saddle and his mount sighed, standing patiently still while the rider wiggled in a vain attempt to get more comfortable.

“Ugh,” Cassandra turned her attention away, waiting to say goodbye to Leliana.

Karl bit his lip, holding in laughter. He couldn’t decide what was funnier: a city dwarf who hated riding but tried anyway, or a city dwarf who loved baiting Cassandra. Luckily, in Varric, he could enjoy both.

Ava led them out of the gates at precisely the time she had said she would, six riders and a pack horse carrying firewood for their first night’s camp. She led them quickly down the mountain, along routes Karl would have thought impassible if he hadn’t seen her horse pick out a trail for them first.

“She’s better than _you_ are,” Leo teased him, voice low.

“Shut up,” Karl chuckled. He didn’t mind following someone else’s lead, as long as they were competent.

Despite his disparaging remarks about the cold, Dorian rode as gracefully as Karl and Leo did. His ever-growing list of talents included being able to hold a civil conversation with Varric and Cassandra simultaneously. Well, except for that one comment about Kirkwall being a shithole. Dorian had not been impressed by his one and only visit to the city-state.

“Hey, that shithole is my _home_ , Sparkler.” Varric slid sideways in his saddle and had to lean forward, squeezing his horse too tightly with his knees. The animal snorted in irritation, but kept plodding on after the lead. “And she cleans up nicer than that den of vipers you’re from,” Varric managed to huff out after regaining his balance. “Besides, didn’t your Imperium build it in the first place? We have you to thank for those terrifying statues overlooking the harbor.”

“Fair point, Varric,” Dorian said, then smoothly turned the conversation toward how lovely Cassandra would look in a blue scarf.

Karl was just as happy as Varric to avoid talking about Kirkwall. Remembering Lance and the Templars either made him mad or sad, and there was nothing he could do about it now.

As the light dimmed, Ava had them dismount and keep walking until full dark. At least what looked like full dark to him. He could barely see the shadow of her horse.

“Light’s getting dim, and there won’t be enough moonlight tonight for you all to travel safely,” Ava said, unfastening the pack horse’s burden. “I’ll get the fire going. I suggest rations while we travel, Inquisitor. We can have a hot meal once we arrive and I’ve reported to Scout Harding.”

“Sounds good to me, Scout Ava,” Karl said, anxious to catch a few hours’ sleep. Time moved faster if you could sleep, and then there would be light again in the morning. Unbidden, the memory of a cold floor and closed door seeped into his bones, constricted around his chest. It was ridiculous; he hadn’t had to sleep in a closet in years.

He rubbed at his chapped lips with a gloved hand, irritated with himself when his voice came out hesitant, “Do we have enough wood to keep a fire going all night?”

Leo gave his elbow a reassuring squeeze and the pressure in his chest loosened.

“Yes, my lord,” Ava said, “I will be sure it keeps going throughout the night.”

“I can take first watch,” Karl said.

Ava waived his offer aside, “No need Inquisitor. Even asleep, I’ll hear anyone’s approach. I naturally wake every hour or two, so I’ll keep the fire up, too.”

Cassandra gave a skeptical grunt.

“Lady Pentaghast, perhaps you would feel more secure if Lord Pavus and I set wards?”

“Whatever you deem best, Scout Ava. Sister Leliana knew what she was about when she assigned you as our guide.”

Ava got the fire going without magic and Dorian shook his head in amusement, his perfectly sculpted mustache moving gracefully with the twist of his smooth lips. Karl sighed and looked away. It was impossible to have a private conversation here about . . . whatever was—or wasn’t—between them. He’d told Leo the truth when he’d said nothing happened the night he’d slept on the floor of Dorian’s cabin.

Varric stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together. “Sure wish there’d been time to rummage through Josephine’s crates for Antivan coffee before we left.”

Ava pulled a pot and small sack from her saddlebag and handed them over. “There was time. Don’t blame me if it keeps you up all night. We leave before dawn.”

Varric stared at the items in his hands for a moment and laughed. “Is there _any_ miracle you can’t pull off?”

“Yes,” she said, and turned to unload the tent she shared with Cassandra.

Varric opened the bag. “Uh, Sparkler, you know how to put the beans in this contraption?”

Dorian released an overdramatic sigh. “Of course, my uncultured friend. Give them here.”

Karl and Leo brushed out the horses, set up their own tent, and crawled inside. It didn’t chase away the cold, but the warm orange light of the fire danced along the walls of the tent, keeping the darkness at bay.

“Sure you don’t want to switch places with Varric?” Leo asked, burrowing down into his bedroll. “You and Dorian could, uh, talk.”

Karl made a noncommittal sound in return, thinking about the dangerous letter folded up tightly in his coat pocket. Would Dorian be happy to hear from his father? Angry? Scared? Not everyone’s parents were terrible, even if they were estranged, and Dorian hadn’t mentioned exactly why he’d left his family. What if—what if Dorian decided to leave and go home?

No, he couldn’t imagine Dorian going willingly. The asshole who’d written the letter had described him like a delinquent child. Dorian was a fine, upstanding man of tremendous talent. Honorable. He’d saved the whole damn world back at Redcliffe. He scolded him for “punching dragons.” Karl smiled to himself in the dark. Dorian was going with him to the Storm Coast because he _wanted_ to.

They lay in the quiet for several minutes, tired but awake, until Leo spoke again.

“He held your hand, you know, when you were in that healer’s tent, and we didn’t know if—if you would ever wake.”

“He did?” Karl’s heart pounded faster. Had his dream been real, then?

“Are you two really that clueless?”

“No.” Karl rubbed at his Marked palm. It didn’t itch so bad this far away from Skyhold. “We’re just . . . cautious.”

“Yeah,” Leo whispered. “Go for the high jump, Karl. You can make it.”

-

Stitches wasn’t a mage and Dalish wasn’t a healer, but the elven “archer” sure knew her stuff when it came to conjuring the elements. Dalish set her ice-cold hands over Lace’s injured shoulder while Lace finished her breakfast in their cabin, away from the prying eyes of the Blades of Hessarian. The Blades had been surprisingly amenable to following Bull’s orders, and Lace was more than happy to delegate that responsibility to him.

Quinn polished her blades while Skinner put her mabari “puppy” through morning training. “Sit. Down. Stand.” After each command, the dog immediately sat on her rump, lay on her belly, and hopped up to stand next to her mistress, all the while watching the piece of bacon Skinner held.

“Dance.”

With a delighted woof, the mabari jumped up on her hind legs and hopped back and forth, making Quinn laugh and the elves smile.

“Good girl.” Skinner gave the puppy the bacon piece and the mabari returned to her side, sitting by her left heel and looking up adoringly as she swiftly swallowed down her treat. When done, her happy panting revealed enough sharp teeth to make a dragon nervous. She was adorable.

“That should do it, Ser,” Dalish sat back and wiped her hands on a dry cloth.

“Thanks, Dalish.” Lace stretched her arm overhead and wiggled her fingers, slowly reaching in front and behind. It was sore and trembling, but the swelling was down and she hadn’t had any more sharp pains. She reached for her bow.

“Ser,” Quinn said, brow furrowed with concern. “The company surgeon said not to strain your arm.”

“I’m hoping not to use it,” Lace said, “but it goes everywhere with me.”

Skinner and Dalish nodded their approval.

“Very well, Ser,” Quinn said, stowing away her polishing cloth. “Another day at the port?”

“Yes, I think we can get through the last of the Templar’s documents today. If we can find notes on red lyrium shipping dates, maybe we can intercept some Venatori, find out who they report to and where.”

Lace left Ritchie in charge of the Inquisition troops holding the north camp and the Blades camp, then trudged up the beach with Quinn and the Bull’s Chargers, giving a wide berth to the three rifts. Dalish and Skinner scouted ahead, just in case there were more darkspawn or Red Templars.

As they approached the port, Skinner whistled for their attention. She climbed down the hill to their left to meet them, accompanied by Tina and an elf Lace didn’t recognize. Instead of the helpful, laughing girl she’d met earlier, Tina was glowering as badly as Timm had when telling them about the Red Templars.

“Gatt!” Bull opened his arms wide and grinned. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you a little overqualified for running reports?”

“Good to see you again, Hissrad,” the stranger answered with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He was skinny, even for an elf, with fair skin and boring brown hair.

“Ser,” Tina addressed Lace formally, “We found this one skulking around the port. Right after we killed some Venatori Enchanters in a dinghy. He says he has a message for The Iron Bull.”

“Not a message,” Gatt held his chin high, ignoring everyone except the Qunari. “A mission.” There was a disturbing undercurrent to his words, like when a priest got a little too enamored with the Chant. Lace was glad she had Krem and the others at her back.

“You came alone?” Bull asked with a confused frown.

“Speed was of the essence. I came for your help, Hissrad.”

“Hissrad?” Lace looked to Bull. She’d heard the word from Leliana, but hadn’t known “friends” under the Qun called each other that. Bull had been _happy_ to see this elf at first, but he was no longer smiling.

Skinner glared at Gatt.

“We don’t have individual names under the Qun, only titles,” Bull explained. “My title was ‘Hissrad,’ because I was assigned to secret work. You can translate it as ‘keeper of illusions,’ or . . .” He paused, searching for the right words.

“‘ _Liar_ ,’” Gatt said bluntly. “It means liar.”

Bull scowled. “Well, you don't have to say it like _that_.”

Lace held up a hand, asking for quiet. “Tina, how many boats?”

“A swift smuggler’s ship and two more dinghies with mages and foot soldiers. We caught the lot stupid enough to think their Red Templar friends resided in _my_ port. _This_ asshole knows the locations of the other landing sites.”

“What of the Blades I had patrolling the beaches?” Lace asked. No one had raised an alarm at the fort before she’d left.

“Dead,” Gatt said, and Lace eyed him suspiciously. “Not my doing,” he said. “The Ben-Hassrath share your concern about the Venatori, and we’ve the firepower to sink the smugglers. We want to keep red lyrium out of Minrathous as badly as the Inquisition does. Our dreadnought is safely out of view, and out of range of any Venatori mages on shore. We’re offering you an alliance.”

“‘ _Alliance?_ ’” Lace said. “My willingness to hire a mercenary band does not mean the Inquisition is _allied_ with Qunandar.”

“We _are_ working together to bring down the Venatori cult,” Bull interjected before Gatt could answer. “That doesn’t mean you’ve declared war on the Imperium, and we won’t hold you to more.”

Gatt’s scowl was fierce, but he said no more. What could possibly have happened to the elf to make him dedicate his whole life to the Qun and its war with Dorian’s people? Had someone hurt him badly enough that he felt compelled to pledge himself to a stronger power?

Lace had traveled to Denerim once with Dennet and her dad to deliver some horses, and struck up a brief friendship with an elven stablehand who had invited her to dinner at his cousin’s in the alienage. Most of the evening had been light-hearted, full of jokes about how short she was, but the elder at the table had also shared stories about the vile Lord Vaughan who had terrorized the elves before the Blight. “Never trust a human,” he’d said. “For we are rabbits to them. Playthings. Easily enslaved, easily killed.”

The younger elves had laughed and brushed away his warning. Yes, they were poor, but King Alistair forbade the old abuses. Lace had been curious, not scared, and a dwarf in the Hinterlands was more likely to be hired by a human than to be accosted by one. That was before she’d learned first-hand the liberties some humans felt they could take. The old scar on her cheek tingled with the memory.

Still, she could not fathom trading one form of oppression for another.

Everyone waited in tense silence for her to speak. Karl would probably tell Gatt to take a long walk off a short pier, and then send for Inquisition soldiers to clear out the Coast, but Leo—Leo would want her to try to do this without pissing off Qunari leadership.

“Two Venatori camps to clear so it’s safe for your dreadnought to sink the lyrium ship?” she asked brusquely.

Gatt pointed toward two different hilltops, “Hissrad and I can help you take one while the Chargers take the other.”

“Agreed,” Bull offered Lace a thankful nod and pulled Gatt aside for a private conversation.

As Krem prepared the second team, Lace murmured to him, “Is it odd for Gatt to travel alone?”

“Yeah. Mission like this should have a half-dozen strike teams. Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve questioned the Chief’s resolve, pushed him into a mission with inadequate resources, seeing if he’d break.”

“So this is a test of grit? Loyalty?”

Krem shrugged, avoiding her gaze.

“Come on, Krem, you were Tevinter military. Even if you never fought on Seheron, you know more about Tevinter and the Qunari than anyone other than Bull.”

“It’s not a test. It’s a short cut. Disposable people.” Krem rubbed a hand over his face, looking more tired than he had after the fight at the port. “The Qun brags about everyone having a place, a purpose, but they’re much like the Magisterium when they want to be fast and flashy. Their superiors want the mission done, whatever the cost. Just throw living bodies at it. Dreadnought’s probably got a skeleton crew with just enough training to know how to light a cannon.”

Lace was getting really sick of all these news lessons in how shitty people could be. “And the Chargers aren’t their people. You’re fodder.”

“Yeah.” He looked to her, resignation clear in his eyes and stance. “But if we take this stand, maybe you and the Chief will make it out okay.”

“You better fight hard enough to survive yourself, Lieutenant. I’m not throwing you to the wolves, and neither is Bull.”

Krem bowed, “Yes, my lady.”

She’d only known the Chargers for a few days, but it was eerie to only have Inquisition scouts Quinn and Tina at her side as they followed Bull and Gatt up the hill toward the nearest Venatori camp. When Bull raised his ax high and bellowed a challenge to the foot soldiers, Lace and Quinn had already felled the two unsuspecting Enchanters with arrows.

Lace wasn’t quite as fast or strong as she’d been before her fall, but, thanks to Stitches’ “hug” and Dalish’s ice, she had full range of motion and the pain in her arm was more ache than pain, like that summer she’d practiced with her bow too long and hard. Tina remained at her side, knives out and ready, in case someone got too close.

The battle was quick and messy; no finesse or talk, only killing the Venatori.

Killing Venatori. When had people become mere targets? Opponents worthy of nothing but slaughter? With no names other than the cult they belonged to. Lace looked at the blood-soaked campsite, wishing there had been more time—some way they could have just sent them home, back across the sea.

A flare went up from the second camp and Lace sighed with relief. Krem and the others had made it.

“Signaling the dreadnought,” Gatt bent over the campfire, dropping the flare, which ignited and arced up over the cliffs to explode over the beach.

It was a tense few minutes of waiting, until the dreadnought coasted into the harbor with a series of dinging bells. Two simultaneous shots hit the smuggler’s smaller, faster ship, and it exploded into flames.

Bull grinned. “Beautiful.” He glanced down at the beach. “Oh, crap.”

Four Venatori Enchanters and a couple of foot soldiers strode toward the hill held by Krem and the other Chargers.

“Not even Dalish can handle four of them,” Quinn said. “Ser, what do we do?”

Lace looked to Bull, expecting him to sound the retreat, but he was quiet, his expression unreadable.

“A fucking fourth dinghy,” Tina spun on Gatt. “You’re a real shithead, you know that? Sending one man to do the job of a whole company. I know _children_ who collect better intel than you do.”

“We all knew it was risky,” Gatt said, “but we can’t back out now. The Chargers have to hold position, give the dreadnought time to move.”

“Bull?” Lace asked, doubt finally creeping in. Was he really going to leave Krem to the Venatori?

He looked down at her, his good eye wide with fear.

“Sound the retreat,” she said gently.

“No!” Gatt said. “If they don’t engage those Enchanters, the dreadnought is dead. You’d be declaring yourself Tal-Vashoth!”

“They’re my people,” Bull growled out, pointing toward the Chargers.

“I know,” Gatt’s voice wavered briefly. “But you need to do what’s right, Hissrad . . . for this alliance, and for the Qun.”

Bull sighed and hung his head, reaching for the horn on his belt. “You lost me at ‘Hissrad.’”

He blew one long, clear note on the horn, and the Chargers turned and retreated.

Gatt turned his back on him and spoke to Lace one last time. “There will be no alliance between our peoples. Nor will you be receiving any more Ben-Hassrath reports from your _Tal-Vashoth_ ally.”

The elf left without a backward glance, not even one toward the ship that held his own people.

Three of the Enchanters flung fireballs into the side of the dreadnought. It didn’t crack the hull and sink; it just fucking exploded.

Helpless, she watched the smoke fill the harbor. So many lives snuffed out by a single gesture. “How many?” she asked Bull.

“Probably three dozen, most of them Viddathari.”

“Viddathari?” It was not a term she’d heard before. She searched his face for clarification.

“Uh,” Bull shifted uncomfortably. “Humans, elves, and dwarves who live by the Qun.”

More labels. More tiles for people who didn’t have names. Disposable people. It was exactly what Krem had told her it was.

The Qunari had been at war with Tevinter for centuries. No way should a dreadnought have been unprepared for a handful of Enchanters. Unless it was a set up.

Rage rose up within her. The same rage she’d felt when Stitches had handed her the Dalish wedding ring in that cabin where the Blades leader had slaughtered her agents.

With a wordless scream, Lace ran after Gatt and shoved him to the ground. Quick as a fish, he flipped himself over, but she pinned him on his back, one wrist under her knee, the other restrained with her own shaking hand, and held her boot knife to his throat. The rippling pain in her injured shoulder barely registered beneath her boiling rage.

“You did this on _purpose_.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “Tried to make him kill his crew. What kind of sick fucks are you? You knew damn well the situation ahead of time and _planned_ to sacrifice the Chargers instead of sending in enough people to do the job right. How many people were on that boat? On both boats?!”

“Lace,” Bull said softly, coming up behind her. “Please. Let him go.”

She yanked Gatt to his feet and shoved him away. He took a few stumbling steps and turned around to glare at her.

She would not be cowed. “You take a message back to your Viddasala: Nobody messes with my people. Nobody.”

The elf—the _Viddathari_ —walked off into the trees and disappeared.

“Thank you,” Bull said softly. “I know I should care more about—”

“ _No_ , Bull, no. It’s not your fault, or my fault, or even Gatt’s. The Ben-Hassrath did a shit job, assuming you’d just fall back in line if you survived. Your duty is to the Chargers. To Krem. And Dalish, and Skinner and the others.” Her hands were shaking. She had to get rid of him fast, before the tears came.

A glimmer of armor shone through the tree line. The rest of the Chargers were headed their way.

She looked over the edge of the hill, where there was an inlet with good shelter. “We’ll camp here tonight, down on the beach. Go, be with your people. I’ll catch up.”

Bull hesitated, raised a hand as if he might pat her on the shoulder, but let it fall limply to his side and headed down the hill. “Chargers!”

“Tina?” Lace’s voice wavered.

“Yes, Ser?”

“Can you and Timm clear out that last squad of Enchanters?”

“Yes, Ser, before nightfall.”

“Have Ritchie assign you some backup.”

“Yes, Ser.” The other dwarf jogged off toward the port.

“And me, Ser?” Quinn asked.

“I don’t know,” Lace answered, collapsing onto her ass in the blood-soaked grass. There was so much blood, even the constant rains of the Storm Coast had not yet washed the hilltop clean. “I don’t know.”

She curled up into a ball on her side and let the tears fall, her hand resting on her belt pouch, where she kept Leo’s compass, the Dalish ring, and Jasper’s log.

Quinn eased down to sit on the ground beside her, the side of her lightly-armored leg against Lace’s back. A few minutes later, Skinner and Dalish joined them, with Skinner’s mabari. Without a word, the elves sat down on the ground, too. The dog whined and curled up in the crook behind Lace’s knees, laying her heavy chin across Lace’s legs.

With a shuddering sigh, Lace sat up, wrapped an arm around the mabari, and wiped away her tears. “It’s time we went back to the port and searched for clues. I want to give the Herald more than a tally of dead bodies.”


	17. Herald’s Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [geekyblackchic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyblackchic), [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata), and [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd). Thanks to SnuggleBonnet for answering all my questions!
> 
>  

While Tina and Timm were off hunting the last of the Venatori, Lace sorted through baskets of soiled Templar papers in Miles’ office, with a fire high in the hearth and Skinner’s mabari sleeping on her feet. Her shoulder was swollen and throbbing again, but it wasn’t bad; Stitches had already given her another elfroot potion. She’d wait until the privacy of camp before asking Dalish for ice.

“This one is in Orlesian,” Skinner called out from her seat by the fire, waving a piece of parchment in the air. She hopped up and plopped the page down on the desk in front of Lace. “They mine red lyrium in Emprise du Lion. Lose workers to the poison every day. When can we go kill them?”

A rich baritone answered from the entrance, “I’d hoped to be done with Orlais.”

“Leo!” Lace sprung to her feet, grunting when she bumped her arm against the desk. It took another moment to convince the snoring dog to get off her feet. Her heart beat as fast as a startled bird’s wings. She rounded the desk, then stopped short, suddenly uncertain. He’d given her that amazing gift, but they hadn’t so much as shaken hands before, and they had an audience.

“Did the sun and stars cooperate?” he asked with a bright smile.

“No,” she grinned back. “But we found our way.”

-

When they arrived at the dwarven port, the most beautiful woman in the world greeted him by name and Leo’s heart soared. She held her arm close to her body and grimaced, before quickly covering up her discomfort with a smile. There was also a fresh pink scratch on her cheek, visible from half-way across the room.

Worry dulled his joy. What dangers had she faced while they had been delayed? “Have you been injured?”

“Heh, you know, just fell off a cliff.”

“What?!” He took a step forward, hands outstretched, before thinking better of it. If she was hurting, she probably didn’t want to be jostled. “Have you seen the healer?”

She gave him a pointed look. “Yes, Leo. I’m just going to be sore for a few days.”

“Wow,” Karl leaned on the door jam, enjoying himself entirely too much, “toss me off a cliff and I’d be complaining and languishing in my tent and making him wait on me hand and foot. Glad you’re the one in charge around here, Scout Harding.”

“Your Worship,” she greeted him formally.

“It’s Inquisitor now,” Leo said, wanting to get the official stuff over with so they could actually _talk_. “Cassandra bullied him into taking the title.”

“Congratulations,” Lace said.

Karl snorted, his good humor dimming a notch. “It’s a formality I wanted to avoid, but I’ll live. Come on, let’s get some of that Antivan coffee Ava brought before Dorian and Varric polish off the last of it. Ava says we can’t have a hot meal until after she’s reported to you.” He winked and went out.

“So, coffee?” Leo asked, then suddenly realized he’d not greeted her companions and felt like a complete ass. The blonde elf watched them with an amused smile, while her colleague seemed unimpressed. “Good afternoon,” he bowed. “Leo Trevelyan. Would you like to join us?”

The blonde laughed and her friend’s lip twitched upward before she reclaimed her stoic mask. “Dalish and Skinner of the Bull’s Chargers, at your service, Ser.” Dalish’s accent was bright and Fereldan. “A hot cup would be most welcome.”

He followed the women out onto the rocky beach. The exuberant hug Lace gave Scout Ava made Leo wish he’d tried to hug her in the port office.

The letter she gave him about the Red Lyrium mines, however, made him want to punch someone. “They kidnap villagers and work them to death in the mines.” He handed the crumpled page to Karl, “You up on your Orlesian?”

“Haven’t read any in years,” Karl muttered, scowling down at the page, tilting his head as he silently mouthed half-forgotten phrases. “I’ve got plenty of demon-spewing rifts to deal with in Ferelden, but we can’t ignore this, even if it wasn’t an operation for the Venatori’s Red Templars.”

“Eetz brutal,” Skinner said. “I will go kill them.” Her dog gave a happy woof of agreement.

“We’ll send some backup with you,” Lace said. She placed her hand on Ava’s arm and looked up at the elven scout. “We’ve only just found each other again, but I’m afraid I have to ask this favor.”

Ava placed her hand over Lace’s. “Yes, I will go and help the Chargers. Have we enough personnel here?”

“I can spare at least another half-dozen to go with you and leave a handful to work with the Blades of Hessarian.”

“Take Quinn with you, Lace,” Skinner pronounced the name Qween. “She is brave and loyal. Almost as good a shot as us.”

Lace answered with an amused huff that warmed Leo’s heart. He was outside this circle of companionship she’d built, but to see her happy was even better than to have her attention.

The Iron Bull was out patrolling with the rest of his crew, so they’d have to wait until the evening watch to meet him. Karl seemed anxious to do so, but Leo was content to wait. He was here to see Lace.

Despite the constant drizzle, her party had managed to get a campfire going. Long after the coffee was gone and dinner eaten, they sat on wet logs around the fire, sharing stories about what they’d done since Lace and Lieutenant Aclassi had left Haven. Leo sat beside his brother, across from Lace. Dorian sat between Karl and Varric. Cassandra sat stiffly next to the novelist. ~~~~

Karl and Leo told them all they could about the Haven battle and their brief time at Skyhold. Lace gave a detailed report for the most part, but glossed over the specifics of her duel and the severity of her fall. The chatty Dalish remained closed-lipped over those points, and Skinner remained silent for most of the conversation, petting the massive mabari pup who sat panting happily at her side.

Even with the sparse details, and seeing her alive and well across from him, Leo’s chest seized up when he thought about Lace challenging the berserker, facing the Templars, careening over the port’s broken bridge. He was grateful the Chargers had been there with her.

As for the Qunari representative who had declared Bull Tal-Vashoth . . . Leo didn’t know what to think. The story made Karl, Dorian, _and_ Varric very tense. He thought back to Varric’s account of the Qunari uprising in _Tale of the Champion_ , but didn’t think the Qunari man that Lace had been working with for the last few days sounded anything like them. He doubted Dalish and Skinner would work for Iron Bull if he hadn’t proven himself trustworthy.

“Well done on all fronts, Scout Harding,” Karl said. “Sorry we weren’t here sooner. We closed the rift by the north docks, and the one along the beach. Are there more?”

Lace looked to Dalish and the elf answered, “In a cave upstream, my lord. I could show you the way in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

The crunch of damp gravel made Leo look up. From up the beach came a massive, gray-skinned man with horns and an eyepatch, along with three humans and a dwarf, all heavily armed.

Dorian stood suddenly. “I think I will retire for the evening. Good night.”

“Right behind you, Sparkler.” Varric followed Dorian into their tent.

Karl watched them go with a mix of longing and resignation, that same pained expression he’d worn each time they’d had to leave Grandma Clara’s and return home to their parents. Leo had hoped Karl would never have to feel that way again.

He squeezed Karl’s shoulder and stood, ready to meet The Iron Bull and the rest of his crew. They’d earned Lace’s respect, and Leo was determined to welcome them as warmly as she did.

-

It was immediately clear to Karl that The Iron Bull and his crew were experienced professionals. He’d been impressed by Lieutenant Aclassi when they’d met at Haven. Stitches, Rocky, even Grim, the one who didn’t speak much, seemed to be as dedicated as the two archers he’d met over dinner, Dalish and Skinner. Scout Harding had already testified to their competence in battle, and their willingness to do what the Inquisition needed done.

Karl couldn’t quite set aside his fears. Yesterday, the Qunari had been an agent of the Qun. He had sent intelligence on the Inquisition to Qunandar. It would be smart to be wary. If he learned Dorian was a “Vint,” what would he do?

It didn’t look like his brother was worried. Every time Bull called Lace “Boss,” Leo grinned like a smitten fool. Karl tried to shrug off his worry and focus on what was actually being said.

After formal introductions were over and the day’s reports received, Karl sat down again, missing Dorian’s presence at his side, but relieved that he was out of sight.

“So, Trevelyan, huh?” The Iron Bull said, settling into the vacant seat by Karl.

“That’s right.”

“Your mother is a formidable woman,” Bull said. “Unapologetically honest. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anyone else like her.”

Karl didn’t know how to respond to that. How had a one-eyed Qunari spy met his mother? She hated the “oxmen” even more than mages. Or did he admire her reputation? The Qun’s followers enslaved their mages, sewed their lips shut, and led them around in chains to do battle for their “righteous” cause.

“Actually, reminds me a bit of the first enchanter of Montsimmard, only with less subterfuge.”

“You’ve met Madame de Fer?” Karl shuddered. He’d rather live in a one-room shack with his mother for the rest of his life.

“Not directly. She was present at a few parties my crew did security for. That’s where I observed Bann and Lady Trevelyan.”

Ah. _Observed_ , not met.

“For the Ben-Hassrath?”

“No. Between assignments, when we’ve got to keep the reputation going. Fighting giant spiders is fun and all, but personal security pays better. And watching nobles either pretend they don’t have sex or flaunt that they have it—that’s always interesting. Most want to add riding an ‘oxman’ to their list of brags.”

His leer wasn’t completely convincing; the racial slur obviously hurt him.

But Karl was not going to play the part of the shocked, naïve noble. Nor was he ready to comfort a virtual stranger who, until this morning, had been reporting the Inquisition’s every move to a foreign power.

“I did not hire you to hear about your sexual escapades,” Karl said, as if dressing down a recruit at morning inspections.

“Your loss.” The Qunari shrugged, intimidating pectorals rippling with the motion. “Maybe that pretty mage you picked up in Redcliffe would be interested.”

Karl’s blood ran cold. His words were even colder: “If you touch Dorian, I will open a rift and leave you to the demons.”

“Ah,” Bull cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll steer clear. Good night, Inquisitor.” He returned to the tent he shared with his Lieutenant.

As soon as they returned to Skyhold, Karl was going to ask Leliana to find out how exactly The Iron Bull knew so much about his inner circle and how they’d been recruited.

“He’s just testing you, learning your boundaries,” Lace said, taking the seat next to him. The third person to sit there in the last hour. Her voice was low, for his ears only, as she watched Leo fill another mug of coffee for Cassandra and Ava. “He may push, but I don’t think he’ll cross the line.”

Karl grunted skeptically, “You’ll forgive me if I have some trouble forgetting Varric’s chapter about the Saarebas who committed suicide by fire. Leo isn’t the only one who’s read _Tale of the Champion_.”

“That won’t be Dorian’s fate,” she said gently. He looked up, surprised. He’d mentioned a Qunari mage, not a Tevinter Altus, and she’d immediately jumped to the right conclusion. She patted his arm and stood. “I promise you.”

-

Dorian and Varric didn’t speak as they prepared for bed. There was no need. A Ben-Hassrath was in their midst, and Kirkwall had given the dwarf enough of a taste of them that Dorian need not have explained himself, had he felt inclined to do so. One did not suddenly stop being Hissrad after a lifetime of serving the Qun.

He wasn’t used to silence. Neither of them were. After a lifetime of hiding who he truly was, and years of literally running from his father’s agents who dragged him home again to be shut behind locked doors, flashily spun stories were Dorian’s specialty as much as Varric’s. But it was too dangerous to speak tonight and be overheard. Best to not be noticed at all.

Usually they set their weapons in a corner of the tent. Varric paused, looking at the tent flap, head tilted to listen to the strangers outside talk with Karl. He patted his crossbow for a moment, raised an eyebrow, and set it down by his pillow. With a shaky breath and smile, Dorian climbed into his bedroll and set his staff alongside himself. Certainly, he could work magic without it—the Fade always followed his will faster than his own thoughts could—but it was good to have a solid weapon for close quarters. If he hadn’t had a staff at Redcliffe, he might not have been able to save Karl in that water-filled dungeon.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, reining in control, shoving the fear away. Karl lived. He lived. They’d beaten Gereon and they would defeat his master. How ironic that he now traveled with a former Ben-Hassrath while Gereon, the man he had once held esteemed above all others, wasted away in the dungeon at Skyhold, under the supervision of Southern Templars while researching the Arcane for the Inquisition.

Not only was this not the life Halward Pavus had wanted for his son; it was much different than what Dorian had envisioned as well.

Tears threatened at the corner of his eyelids. He wiped them away with his thumb and focused on breathing normally.

Karl lived, and they had a fighting chance to save the world from Corypheus. That was what mattered.

“Good night, Sparkler,” Varric said.

“Good night, Varric.”

-

Dawn on the Storm Coast was as dreary as mid-day had been. Sometimes Dorian wondered how the South had survived so long with so little sun. He pulled on an extra pair of socks before donning his boots, yearning for the broiling heat of Minrathous, sun on his naked shoulders, enough light he could still tell it was daytime if he closed his eyes and raised his face to the sky.

“Shit weather,” Varric muttered, “But at least we don’t have to get back on a boat.”

“Hmm,” Dorian said in reply. If there wasn’t any Antivan coffee left this morning, he didn’t know what he’d do. To chase away this chill, he needed something hotter and richer than basic Fereldan fare had to offer.

Thankfully, there was coffee, and he didn’t even have to ask for it. As soon as he followed Varric out of the tent, Karl was there, handing him a steaming mug. The beautiful Marcher offered him a shy smile that made him want to kiss him, but they had an audience of strangers, so he settled for squeezing Karl’s hand.

Karl’s smile widened, and Dorian felt warmer even before he raised the mug to his lips. Imagine, making Karl Trevelyan _shy_. His ego strut about like a peacock in his chest.

The morning mission played out flawlessly. One of Scout Harding’s new elven friends led them to the cave with the final rift. The addition of the Chargers made for short work with the demons and Karl successfully closed the rift on his very first attempt.

The communal breakfast and hike upstream had provided plenty of time to observe The Iron Bull and his group. They shared a genuine affection not found amongst the other mercenaries Dorian had encountered during his travels, and Bull worked well with the dwarf leading their expedition. Perhaps this partnership would not be a total disaster.

“Just another band of misfits,” Varric smiled as he holstered his crossbow. But his smile was sad, his lips bending sideways instead of up. The crinkles around his eyes as much from regret as humor. Perhaps he was recalling his own group of friends that had gone their separate ways after Kirkwall.

Dorian had never had that. An entire group people—friends—who could randomly pick up a game of Wicked Grace, just for the enjoyment of it. He’d had some confidants. There was Maevaris, of course, and Felix was proof that Tevinter could produce a man above reproach. He swallowed thickly. Best not to think about them today, and how far away they were. He had to find his own way. No reason to mope about it.

The dwarf nodded toward the Qunari and his crew, “They’re all right.”

“They certainly appear so,” Dorian said. He would be polite, but he wasn’t as ready as Varric to let his guard down. If one stopped being suspicious, it was easier to be caught and bound.

The rifts were gone, and the Inquisition, bolstered by the Blades of Hessarian, now had a strong hold on the Coast. The Chargers were soon on their way, along with a handful of Inquisition soldiers, all led by Scout Ava, who knelt and hugged Scout Harding goodbye. Dorian did not envy them the long journey into Orlais, where the Inquisition was not officially recognized and the troops of Empress Celene and Duke Gaspard had been killing each other for months in a messy civil war. Elves were not well-treated there, and if a Qunari was found—well, he may not have trusted Bull, but Dorian hoped he and his crew wouldn’t be caught.

As Harding watched them disappear behind the nearest hill, Karl and his brother came to stand at her side. Naturally, Dorian followed. Cassandra had just inadvertently offended Varric with talk of Kirkwall’s “recovery,” and Dorian much preferred listening to Karl’s melodious voice than the dragon slayer and novelist’s bickering.

“You’ve more reports of rifts?” Karl asked Harding.

“Yes, south of here. The village of Crestwood has seen several, as has the Fallow Mire. Not a lot of people there, but you’re the only one who can help.”

“We should go,” Karl said. “Ava can send us whatever she finds out about the Venatori. How stocked are you on provisions? We left Skyhold in a bit of a hurry.”

“Enough for now,” Harding said, “and we can resupply at the Crossroads and Redcliffe between Crestwood and the Mire.”

“Yeah,” Karl sent Dorian a furtive glance he couldn’t interpret. “That’s a good idea.”

The ride was wet and miserable, and when they arrived, Crestwood was under a constant magic-induced rainstorm because of a rift _underneath_ the lake that had drowned Old Crestwood ten years earlier, flooded by darkspawn. There was a dam they could use to drain the lake, but access to it was blocked by bandits occupying the local fort, Caer Bronach. After all the time magic and demons Dorian had seen, clearing out a handful of bandits was simple. Even the brutish man who charged out of the upper keep fell without much fuss: Dorian hit him with lightning and Cassandra shield-bashed him into submission.

Karl raised the Inquisition’s flag over the fort and sent agents off to drain the lake, but there wasn’t much comfort to be found within the stone walls. Even the interior rooms were miserably damp. Dorian cleaned and warmed himself up as best he could, then went searching for a quiet spot to look out over the dreary landscape.

Near the front, up a slippery wooden ladder, was a small stone walkway, probably used for the evening watch when the fort was fully staffed. It was empty now, as all Karl’s agents bustled below, setting up camps inside the fort. Dorian sat on the parapet’s outer wall and swung his legs over to hang outside the fort.

His ass was cold, but he wasn’t ready to curl up and hide away in a tent just yet.

The steady clomp-clomp of boots up the ladder let him know he was no longer alone. Fortunately, it was the one person he _was_ interested in talking to.

“Hey,” Karl said gently. He sat down next to him and swung his legs over the wall. “You okay?”

“Brilliant,” Dorian quipped. “It’s so warm here, I thought I’d go for a moonlight swim in the nude.”

Karl’s half-hearted chuckle dampened Dorian’s spirits even more, until Karl scooted closer, so the sides of their legs touched. Dorian had definitely hoped to sit this close to him. He looked up, flirty quip ready on his lips, but Karl’s serious expression made him pause.

“Dorian, there’s a letter you need to see.” He set his hand on Dorian’s thigh, as if bracing him for the worst.

Dorian forced a smile. “A letter? Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?”

“Not quite. It’s from your Father.” Karl’s grip tightened on his leg, and Dorian was grateful for the touch. Without it, he may have panicked and tried to fly off the wall. Shape changing into a bird, however, was not one of his many marvelous talents.

“From my father. I see. And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?”

“A meeting,” Karl handed him the folded parchment. “I’m sorry.”

It was his father’s handwriting. At least he’d had the decency to write his own dirty work, instead of using a scribe.

_Your Reverence,_

_I understand that you feel inadequate to the task of bringing Dorian to a secret meeting. Even in the asking, I find it difficult to believe myself. Considering my son has rebuffed all contact, this is the only way. I know him; he would be too proud to come if he knew—even just to talk. That is all we wish to do. The thought of Dorian in the south, placing himself in the path of such danger, alarms us more than I can express._

_If this somehow succeeds, we have a family retainer at the Vandral Hills watching for Dorian's arrival. He will bring the boy to us, somewhere private. If Dorian utterly refuses to go with him, it ends there… and there is nothing we can do. We are at our wit's end._

_Graciously yours,_

_Magister Halward of House Pavus_

It was the usual nonsense his father used to manipulate Chantry folk. Certainly not the worst tactic he’d ever tried. Rather inept, actually, assuming that he’d travel with Mother Giselle to an unannounced rendezvous. Unless . . .

Unless the plan had been for this letter to fall into the hands of the Inquisitor, get the infamous Herald of Andraste to strong-arm Dorian home. How _dare_ he go after Karl. Didn’t Magister Pavus have enough henchmen already?

_He will bring the boy to us, somewhere private._

Dorian swallowed back the fear. He was _not_ going to let his father spirit him away to a gilded cage in Qarinus. He’d learned the lesson all too well the last time the Magister’s agents had dragged him off.

“He can stick his alarm at his ‘wit’s end.’” Dorian crumpled the letter in his fist and incinerated it into instant ash that the rain swiftly washed from his hand.

Karl chuckled, a deep reverberating sound that ran down his arm, along his hand on Dorian’s leg. Time slowed. Dorian lost himself in Karl’s intense brown gaze, skin tingling below his robes as Karl smoothed his hand in slow, _purposeful_ circles along Dorian’s thigh. His flawless lips were close, a raindrop clinging right where Dorian wanted to taste.

Karl leaned forward.

“Inquisitor! Inquisitor!”

 _Fasta vass_. They were _this close_ to fulfilling the dream he’d had ever since Karl had winked at him in the Redcliffe chantry.

Karl closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, releasing a small growl of frustration. An Inquisition agent stood on the ladder, only the upper half of his body visible above the wall. Dorian didn’t recognize his voice and his hood covered most of his face.

“Yes?” Karl asked, amazingly calm.

“The water’s down. We’ve found a way under Old Crestwood.”

“Tell Charter we’ll be on our way within the hour.”

“Yes, Your Worship!” The agent slid down the ladder and ran off.

“Well,” Dorian looked away, over the drenched, bleak hills. “Duty calls.”

“Dorian,” Karl said tenderly, drawing Dorian’s gaze back to his own. The rogue’s look brimmed with a fiery want that his voice had not fully conveyed. Karl raised a hand to Dorian’s face, rubbed his bare thumb along his chin, up and over his lips.

Dorian’s sharp intake of breath made Karl smile. Then the Herald of Andraste leaned forward and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Saarebas Karl refers to is in the DA2 quest [Shepherding_Wolves](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Shepherding_Wolves), Where Sister Petrice insists Hawke lead a chained and collared Qunari mage out of Kirkwall.
> 
> The [letter from Dorian’s father](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Note:_Official-Looking_Letter) is canon.


	18. The Kiss of an Altus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [geekyblackchic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyblackchic), [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata), and [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd).
> 
>  

Dorian’s lips were smooth as silk and hot as the hottest summer Karl could remember. His sleek, rain-soaked moustache brushed along Karl’s upper lip as Dorian tilted his head, wrapped a powerful hand around the back of Karl’s neck. He clutched at the front of Dorian’s robes with one hand, wrapped his other arm around him, pulling them together as tightly as their awkward side-by-side position would allow.

Karl groaned and opened his mouth in invitation, thrilled when Dorian’s clever tongue swept in to meet his own. He delved deep, massaging his neck and moving his lips in a sensuous dance that made Karl’s heart stampede.

Blood racing, cock hard and straining against the confines of his pants, Karl reluctantly eased back, suckling on Dorian’s lower lip as he went. Dorian’s pleasured sigh was a balm for his aching heart.

“Whatever will the people say, Inquisitor?” Dorian’s voice was thick, deeper than usual. His desire as clear and overwhelming as Karl’s own. The knowledge sent an electric thrill up Karl’s spine.

“I don’t care about them,” Karl said. “Your favorable opinion is the only one I care about.”

“Ha,” Dorian released an amused breath and let his hand slide from Karl’s neck. “You have it, but you might find it’s not enough.” He turned away, swinging his legs back over the wall into the fort. “We’d best be on our way.”

“Dorian—”

“Before more demons spawn.”

Nothing else deflated a hard-on as fast as someone walking away. As Dorian disappeared down the ladder, the happy thrum in Karl’s chest evaporated.

Dorian thought well of him, he wanted him—but he didn’t want to want him.

Karl bowed his head, hands clenched painfully tight on the edge of the slick stone, which bit into his bare palms like jagged ice.

Not enough? Dorian was more than enough. Each moment they’d had together since the Redcliffe chantry was worth a whole lifetime. After years of loneliness, it was more than Karl had dreamed possible. He should be satisfied, overflowing with contentment. But he wanted more. He wanted Dorian to _know_ he was good enough, to trust him to love him. To stay. Or at least promise to return. The Inquisition wouldn’t last forever, but that didn’t mean they would need to part ways.

They should be side by side, as they had been at Redcliffe.

Karl rose and steeled himself. Whatever Dorian decided, he needed friends, allies. People who kept Magister Pavus’ scheming thugs off his back. Who made him feel safe. He’d make sure Dorian had that.

-

Lace was more than happy to assist the Crestwood watch, if it meant avoiding the dark, dank, mysterious entrance that went under the lake. All those barnacles around it gave her the creeps. Karl had taken Leo, Dorian, Lady Cassandra, and Varric down into the caves to search for the last rift, the one that made it constantly rain. She and Quinn were to stay near the center of the village. Other agents stood at the front gate and with Sister Vaughn on an upper hill.

“Crestwood is wetter than the Storm Coast,” Quinn tilted a crate sideways to drain the water off the lid. She set the box under the eaves of the Crestwood mayor’s cabin and sat on it.

Lace chuckled. “Would you rather I had sent you to Emprise du Lion? Ava’s latest report says a magical winter has frozen all the lakes there.”

“Eh, no thanks. I miss having the Chargers at our back, but I much prefer being wet to frozen—oi! Where do you think you’re off to?” Quinn sprang up from her seat.

Mayor Dedrick had slunk out of his cabin, a traveling sack over his shoulder. He froze, one leg over the low garden wall to the left of his cabin. “Oh,” he stammered. “Just out for a moonlight stroll, now that you’ve kindly done away with the bandits.”

The lie was so poorly delivered, Lace laughed outright. The man was clearly set to run. Stupid, considering nothing about him had been suspicious before now.

Quinn grabbed him by the collar and hauled him back to the near side of the wall, saying cheerily, “Here, Gregory, allow me to help you. That route’s much too steep.”

“Thank you.” He took a step toward the path out of the village and stopped short with a squeak. Quinn still had hold of him.

Lace offered him an over-sweet smile. “If you could spare a moment before your promenade, Mayor Dedrick, I have an Inquisition report to write and seem to be out of parchment.”

“Y-yes,” he pointed toward his cabin. “Help yourself.”

“Oh, I think it would be easier if you showed us.” Quinn dragged him inside and plopped him down on a chair.

“Th-there,” he pointed a trembling hand at the desk. “Top right drawer. Good evening to you both.” He stood and Quinn casually elbowed him back down into the chair, where he plunked down with a grunt.

Lace quickly surveyed the one-room cabin. High bed, sparse bookshelves, the single chair and desk. Atop the desk was a letter with an official seal.

“Here, let me help you,” the mayor jumped up and reached for the letter.

Quinn grabbed his wrist, voice suddenly threatening, “No sudden moves around the Lead Scout, Mayor.”

Lace picked up the letter. The address on the front was simply _Inquisitor_.

Dedrick’s eye twitched as she slipped it into her breast pocket.

“Let’s all take our evening walk together, shall we?” she asked sweetly. “To the fort.”

Dedrick hung his head in defeat and let Quinn take hold of his elbow and lead him out the front gate, where the guards didn’t wait for them to be out of earshot before they started speculating as to why the Inquisition was escorting their mayor out of the village.

“Care to tell us why you tried to abandon the villagers?” Lace asked. “Or explain this?” she tapped her pocket containing the letter.

He whimpered and shook his head.

Leliana would have had the truth out of him in less than ten seconds. Lace, however, wasn’t sure how hard she should push. He seemed rather timid.

“Think he’s a Venatori spy?” Quinn asked aggressively, winking at Lace behind his back, and he squeaked again.

Lace struggled to keep a straight face. “We shall see.”

They handed him off to Scout Charter at the fort, where he was secured in an upper room under guard.

“What’d he do?” Charter asked.

“Straddled a garden wall,” Quinn said and Lace giggled.

Charter raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Abandoned his post. Yeah, I know, not our business,” Quinn said, “but the Village is under our protection and he was acting sketchy.”

Charter scoffed and shook her head, waving them off.

“Does she report to you, or do you report to her?” Quinn asked as she followed Lace back down to the lower courtyard.

“Charter? Technically, she recruited me, though Leliana signed the letter, and we both report to directly to her—oh!”

The rain suddenly stopped, the expansive clouds snuffed out as quickly as a small candle flame, revealing the full, white moon in a black sky.

Lace scrambled up the nearest ladder and looked out over the drained lake, toward Old Crestwood. “The rift’s gone!” she shouted down and everyone in the fort cheered.

She anxiously watched from the battlements until they returned a few hours later, dragging their weary feet. They’d left the horses at the fort, not wanting to leave the animals out front of the cave, where stray demons might roam. She ran down to greet them.

“You know, not every dwarf likes caves,” Varric announced as they cleared the gate. “Hey, Harding, could have used you down there.”

Lace smiled, perfectly content to leave all the spelunking to the city dwarf. “Write me a story, and I’ll consider it.”

“Hmm,” Varric frowned pensively, like he was already composing a prologue in his head. Shit, if he wrote her a story, she’d feel obligated to go on the next cave mission.

“Do not get your hopes up, Scout Harding,” Lady Cassandra huffed out, limping off toward the healer’s tent. “Varric only spins the tales _he_ wants.”

Varric shrugged. “There were plenty of demons for your bow: Wraiths, shades, rage, terrors—spindly bastards. Despair.” Dorian scrunched up his pretty face and put on an exaggerated shiver, making Varric laugh. “Sparkler, here, can’t handle any temperature less than boiling.”

Karl coughed into his glove and Leo pursed his lips, eyes twinkling with unspoken mischief. She dearly hoped she could someday make Leo’s eyes sparkle like that.

“Sorry to get back to business,” she said, reaching into her pocket and handing the mayor’s letter to Karl. “I’ve taken Mayor Dedrick into custody.”

Karl’s surprised laugh reverberated through every level of the stone fort. Varric and Dorian looked at her curiously. Leo appeared shocked. Karl shook his head. “Why?” he asked.

“He tried to sneak out without any of the villagers noticing, left that letter for you.”

“Not another love letter, I hope,” Dorian said with a grimace.

Karl turned it over. “Still sealed. You can open my mail, you know, Harding, if it appears urgent. No need to wait for me.”

The fond look Leo gave his brother made Lace’s heart go pitter-pat. They _both_ trusted her, wanted her to be a bigger part of their mission.

Karl tore off the seal, unfolded the parchment. “Bastard,” he growled.

“What?” Leo asked. “What is it?”

“The _mayor_ flooded Old Crestwood, not the darkspawn,” Karl handed the letter over to Leo.

Lace’s stomach sank down into her boots. The timid man had an evil streak after all.

“ _Why?_ ” Dorian asked, eyes wide.

“Says it was to keep the Blight sickness from spreading,” Leo said, handing the letter to Lace, who read it quickly. What a miserable mess. No wonder he’d been jumpy, living with that kind of guilt for ten years.

“Well, shit,” Varric said.

“ _Is_ the Inquisition responsible for this matter?” Dorian asked. “It’s tragic, but a decade old, and Corypheus will not stand idly by while we are distracted by every sad problem we encounter. There is the survival of the entire world to consider.”

Karl gave Dorian an irritated frown. “We already have him in custody. I have to take some kind of official action. I’m with Harding and Quinn on this one—I’d have stopped him, too. The village is under our protection, and addressing their old hurts is a part of that. Legally, we could turn him over to the Teyrn. Thing is, a Blight-related matter should go to the Grey Wardens, and they’ve gone missing.” Karl paused. “Except King Alistair.”

They all pondered that complication in silence for a moment.

“You want Leliana to contact him?” Leo asked.

“No,” Karl said, “It’s my responsibility. This is a professional courtesy, showing Thedas we respect Ferelden’s sovereignty. I have a feeling we might need a personal favor from a monarch someday soon, and I’m keeping the Nightingale in reserve until then.”

“I’ve a pair of Denerim homing pigeons,” Lace offered, relieved that someone else would have the terrifying honor of writing to the King.

“Thank you,” Karl said. “I’ll have the letter ready before we leave in the morning.”

“Hot stew is up!” Charter called down from the main camp.

Once they’d cleaned up and had dinner, they sat around the fire, reluctant to crawl into their cold bedrolls, even though they planned to leave at dawn. Lace was grateful that Charter’s crew had operations well in-hand, and that Varric was happy to distract the rest of them with wild tales unrelated to their own troubles.

While Varric had Cassandra’s full attention for a story about a red-headed guard captain, he paused to take a sip from his flask, then handed it to Lace. She took a swig and nearly choked; it was Orzammar ale, not Fereldan whiskey. The black, super strong stuff her mother only had out for First Day. How had he smuggled it in? Other than his time in tents and relieving himself in the bushes, he’d been under Cassandra’s constant eye since before the Conclave explosion. Charter held her hand up to decline, but Quinn took a good gulp without so much as a blink. Usually, humans sputtered for an hour after drinking it. Quinn winked at Lace and handed the flask back to Varric.

Karl and Leo were deep into their own quiet conversation. Dorian huddled under several blankets, his shoulder flush with Karl’s.

Varric moved on to a story about copper marigolds. Cassandra frowned and leaned forward, arms across her knees, “That’s not how you told it in the book!”

Lace let their spirited conversation fade into comforting background noise, mixing with the lovely, low murmur of the Trevelyan brothers’ conversation.

When Charter left the communal fire to take her spot on the watch, Lace followed. “Ser, I’ve recovered a personal effect from the Storm Coast and wondered if you could help me identify who it should go to.” Lace opened her blood-stained belt pouch and took out the Dalish wedding ring. Her fingers were steady, but her heart pounded, and she rubbed a thumb over Leo’s compass to ground herself.

“From one of the agents murdered by the Blades of Hessarian,” Lace said. “There’s an elven inscription in the band. I forgot to ask Ava to translate. Then I thought it best to ask you, since you knew everyone assigned to the Coast.”

“I do,” Charter said. Then amended, “I did.” She held the ring up to the moonlight to read the inscription. Lace had had trouble reading it in daylight, but the elf’s eyes were much keener than her own.

“I know the family. They will be most grateful for its return.” Charter lay a hand on Lace’s shoulder, one veteran connecting with another. “Thank you, Lace. Most would not have noticed, or thought to bring it home.”

“The Chargers’ human healer brought it to me.”

“Please relay our thanks to him as well,” Charter said.

“I will.”

Charter returned to her duties.

Melancholy task done, Lace felt listless, adrift with no course available until the morning. She climbed to one of the empty parapets and looked to the sky. At least the clouds were gone.

The tap-tap of boots on the ladder made her look over her shoulder. Leo. He came to stand at her side, look up at the freshly-cleared sky.

“This is nice,” she said. “I haven’t seen the stars since Haven.”

He looked down, as if searching her face, but his expression was difficult to read in the watery moonlight. “I wish I could say I’m the one who gave them to you.”

“He did,” Karl called up from the base of the ladder, craning his neck to look at them. “He saved me from plenty of terror and despair demons down there, Lace. Even ‘ _the green ones_ ’ he hates. Leo _definitely_ secured a clear view of those stars for you.”

Lace laughed and smiled down at the Herald.

“ _Good-night_ , little brother,” Leo said tersely.

“Goodnight!” Karl answered brightly, waving to them and heading back to the fire, where he bent down and kissed Dorian on the cheek.

“The green ones?” Lace asked.

“Wraiths,” Leo grumbled. “Got a face full of poison the first time we met one. No permanent damage—except I get pissed just thinking about the little bastards.”

She chuckled and reached out to take his hand, give it a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you for braving the little bastards so I could have this marvelous view. Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he said. But he was looking at her, not the sky.

-

Dorian lay awake in his freezing tent, envious of the dwarf who snored at his side.

Had anyone seen Karl kiss him at the campfire? Perhaps they’d all been busy with their own business. The passionate display on the vacant battlements was one thing: likely no one had seen, and, if they had, a brief moment of recklessness was different than tender displays at the communal fire. Fereldans and Marchers were much more _lax_ than Tevinters about kissing “the wrong sort” in public. But if he and Karl were seen as _together_ , as a serious _pair_ , the Inquisitor’s judgement would be called into question more than it already had. Fear still warred with respect within the hearts of the people. Karl—the Inquisition—had not yet secured any nation’s official recognition; if he was seen as allied with Tevinter, everyone would clamor for the Inquisition’s demise.

Karl’s demise.

When Dorian eventually fell asleep, he didn’t even feel up to bantering with the desire demon who came to him in Karl’s form, offering peeled grapes. “Begone,” he said simply, and curled up into a ball on the brown ground of the Fade—it was as fucking cold as the stone he slept on in the waking world. With a mere thought, he raised a circular wall of fire around himself to keep the despair demons at bay. They were the only real danger to him tonight.

-

The Hinterlands were not as warm as Minrathous, but Dorian was most pleased to leave behind the cold mountain of Skyhold and the rainy camps they’d been stuck in for the last several days.

“Ah, to have a little bit of sun again,” Dorian said. “A miracle.”

Karl’s answering chuckle gave Dorian a different kind of shiver altogether. He looked over and licked his lips. Everything about him screamed noble. Sexy noble. Karl sat regally in Ace’s saddle, one hand on the reins, the other resting on his thigh, watching the terrain in front of them like a hawk, yet at complete ease. Confident. In control. The sun gleamed off his spotless prowler armor, caressed his smooth, brown scalp.

Dorian remembered that hand on his own thigh. Karl’s tongue in his mouth. The heat of his embrace.

His tender kiss on his cheekbone when he bid him goodnight.

Dorian looked away. Best to stick with the more passionate memories. Hoping for more . . .  well, it was a foolish endeavor. It always was.

After they disposed of his father’s retainer, perhaps he could convince Karl to take rooms— _adjoining rooms_ —at an inn, before they went back to the horrid realities of camping. They’d saved the world once and were going to do it again. That called for at least one night of fun, did it not?

Because of the steep terrain, they had to skirt around Redcliffe and approach from the south. As they approached the Crossroads, Cassandra rode up from the rear-guard position to Karl’s side. “Inquisitor,” she said, “I would like to check in with Corporal Vale first.”

“How about you do that,” Karl said. “I’ve got some supplies I want to pick up in Redcliffe, and check in on Senna’s husband. We’ll meet you back here this afternoon.”

“Senna?” Cassandra asked, puzzled.

“The elf?” Karl said. “We took flowers to her shrine?”

“Oh, yes,” Cassandra looked down and blushed. _That_ was something Dorian had not expected from the brash Right Hand of the Divine. “They had an enduring love that lasted a lifetime.”

Varric gave a watery cough behind them and Cassandra turned in her saddle to glare.

Leo and Harding were grinning, along with Harding’s fellow archer, Quinn.

Varric reached for his coat pocket where he kept his quill, but quickly thought better of it, grasping at his saddle to regain his balance. His horse huffed in annoyance, but made no attempt to buck. Leo laughed and expertly bent from his own saddle toward Harding, whispering something in her ear that made her smile.

If anyone were to ask, Dorian would say it was a nauseatingly sweet scene. Yet it settled his nerves. These were good people; they wouldn’t let the “retainer” knock him on the head and carry him off to Tevinter. He hadn’t talked to anyone other than Karl about the letter, but where Karl went, his brother went, and Dorian doubted Harding would leave the elder Trevelyan’s side. He was clearly smitten with her, and she appeared quite receptive of the attention.

As they passed the hill where Dorian and Scout Harding had “met” at a distance, back before either of them had been introduced to the Trevelyans, she looked to him and nodded her thanks again. It had not been much trouble, really, to help her with a horror spell on that Templar, though it had been an unnecessary risk to show himself to her. He’d been traveling alone for weeks, craving recognition from anyone, really. Fascinating how things all worked out: he hadn’t known anything about Scout Harding back then, and now she was one of Karl’s most trusted confidants.

When they parted ways in the Crossroads, and Cassandra rode off for Vale’s camp, Karl nodded for Varric to follow her. Varric tilted his head, narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “You want me to keep her from following you?”

“You’re a clever rogue,” Karl said. “You’ll manage.”

Varric chuckled. “I’m a _brilliant_ hack, and distracting Cassandra is my specialty.” He winked and trotted after her, cursing when he reached the first bend and had to slow his horse.

Leo laughed. “Ten sovereigns says he falls off.”

“No bet,” Harding answered. “Rich boy.”

“You don’t even _have_ ten sovereigns,” Karl scoffed, urging his mount up the hill and onto Redcliffe Road.

“I’m good for it,” Leo said. “Just ask Ambassador Montilyet.”

Dorian only half-listened to their ongoing banter. The nervousness was back. The closer they got to Redcliffe, the tighter the grip around his lungs. The stiffer his shoulders became. His neck was so taut, it hurt.

Karl reached over and lay a hand on his thigh, eyes full of sympathetic understanding. Amazing how that same hand could arouse, or comfort.

Dorian took a shuddering breath and rolled his shoulders back. He’d survived the last time his father had ordered him kidnapped, and then escaped his fancy prison. He was stronger now, wiser. Had three armed companions—four, counting Harding’s friend. This time, he wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t have to meet with Magister and Lady Pavus, tell them for the sixty-third time that he was not going to marry the lady of their choice, take up his father’s seat in the Magisterium; he just had to tell a representative to bugger off.

Or maybe set his pants aflame as an example.

Harding and Quinn went shopping for supplies while Dorian accompanied Karl and Leo for a dockside chat with the elven widower, who was pleased to welcome them back to Redcliffe. “Thank you, my lords, for ousting the Tevinters.” He glanced at Dorian, but didn’t say anything about his Tevinter-style mage robes. “Arl Teagan has returned and proper order has been restored.”

From the docks, Dorian could see a small serpent flag flapping from a side eave of the tavern. To anyone passing by, it should look like a loose bit of fabric that had flown on the breeze and caught the roof, but Dorian knew better. It marked the building as a rendezvous for Magisters’ business. It hadn’t been there when Alexius was there. And it was in Pavus colors.

His father’s agent was just a few steps away, waiting for him.

The elf bid them farewell and Karl led them up the stone steps toward the village center.

“I also have someone I would like to meet,” Dorian said, as casually as he could manage.

“Lace and Quinn are already in place,” Karl said.

“What?” Dorian stopped dead in his tracks, making the Trevelyan brothers pause, too.

Karl stepped closer, dipping his head and keeping his voice low. “I know what the flag means. Leliana told me about them as soon as I brought you home to Haven. I haven’t told Quinn the specifics, but I did tell Leo about the letter—just the gist of it—and he told Lace.”

Dorian darted an apprehensive glance at Leo, who appeared unfazed by it all.

“I chose your life over your privacy, Dorian,” Karl went on, “and if you hate me for it . . .” Karl swallowed nervously, “So be it. At least you’ll be safe.”

Hate him? He could kiss him for all his strategic posturing. But now was not the time and the village center was certainly not the place.

“I knew there was something clever about you,” Dorian offered a flirty smile and Karl sighed in relief.

Dorian looked up toward the Gull and Lantern tavern. On the ridge behind it, within a thick grove of trees, he could barely make out the green Inquisition hood Quinn wore. She was so still, he had initially mistaken her for a tree, her strung bow for branches. He surreptitiously looked for Harding, but did not see her.

“Lace is inside,” Leo said, motioning for them to start walking again. “She would have raised the alarm by now, if it wasn’t safe to enter.”

As they approached the door to the tavern, Karl stepped in front of him. Leo fell back behind him.

“I can—” Dorian started to protest. If there was an ambush, it was best that he be hit first, not Karl.

“ _I_ go in first, or we don’t do this,” Karl interrupted him, hand poised over the handle.

Dorian could easily knock the brothers out of his way. He wouldn’t even need a staff to do it. But it would be pointless to hurt them, and he didn’t _want_ to hurt them. His mind flashed back to their first meeting, how Karl had ricocheted around the chantry with his grapple chain, easily dodging demons. He should be fine, even if they met hostile mages inside.

“Very well,” Dorian nodded his assent. “After you.”

They stepped into the dim interior, where a small fire crackled merrily in the hearth. The tavern’s shadowy corners were untouched by the smattering of candles lit on a few side tables. Outside, he hadn’t noticed that the shutters were closed.

“Shit!” Leo said. “There’s nobody here.”

Yes, instead of a bustling tavern, full of noisy patrons to mask a private conversation, the building lay empty. It _was_ an ambush.

“Dorian,” his father stepped from the shadows.

Dorian took a step back, throat seizing up.

“What the fuck!” Karl exclaimed as the brothers yanked out their blades and brandished them. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Father,” Dorian finally found his voice.

“ _Lace?_ ” Leo called out.

“Clear up here,” Harding’s voice echoed down the stone stairwell. The Magister blinked once in surprise at the new voice, but quickly recovered. “He’s alone.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, not taking his eyes off his father. “I sense only one other mage here.”

Karl gripped his daggers tighter, a green glow growing around the one on the left. “Well, my hand wants to freak out, and I don’t know how long I can hold it in, so if you don’t want me to kill your father, you better talk quick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Senna refers to the quest [Flowers for Senna](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Flowers_for_Senna). 
> 
> Dorian remembers helping Lace back in chapter 5, [From Witchwood to Redcliffe](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10703433/chapters/25639518).


	19. Deft Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works), [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works), and [Tessa1972](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessa1972/gifts). Thank you to SnuggleBonnet and [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata/works) for your writerly support.
> 
> Some of what follows could be considered NSFW.
> 
>  

 

Trapped.

The Magister himself had come.

Dorian was terrified, but he still didn’t want Karl to destroy him.

“Please don’t hurt him,” Dorian said. It was a plea to his father as much as it was a plea to Karl. Manipulation had been Halward Pavus’ style for most of his life, but he’d recently discarded his unwillingness to practice blood magic, and shown he was willing to get physical to get his way. Last time it had been a kidnapper. This time he’d come himself. No witnesses that way.

But he was still his father. The one who had taught him things his tutors couldn’t. The one who had bragged of his accomplishments, challenged him to become the man he was—only to turn on him when Dorian refused to play pretend for the rest of his life. It hurt, but he couldn’t stop loving him.

If they didn’t all walk away from this alive, he didn’t think he could go on.

Karl’s glowing hand shook as he gripped his weapons, but he was here, still in control, and standing between Dorian and the biggest heartache he had ever known: his father’s full disapproval. Most people could run away, disappear. It was different for the sole heir of a Magister.

“So, it is true,” his father stared at Karl’s marked hand for a moment before getting down to business. “I apologize for the deception, Inquisitor. I never intended for you to be involved.”

“Ha!” Leo scoffed. “You send poorly-disguised threats against Dorian to a Revered Mother when it’s known she’s trying to get the Inquisition to talk to the Chantry—Pardon me, the _Southern_ Chantry, must remember we barbarians follow a different Divine. You didn’t care _who_ carted him off to you, just as long as you could get your grubby little hands on him.”

“Leo, please,” Karl ground out through his teeth. “Let Dorian handle this.”

Leo released a frustrated growl, but did as his brother asked.

“Magister Pavus,” Karl said, “it’s Dorian you owe an apology, not me. You tricked him here and he has every right to be angry.”

Angry? Dorian was quaking in his boots, mute.

“Dorian, please, if you'll only listen to me.” Every conversation began this way, the wise Magister correcting the erring child. Dorian’s fear began to fade. Nothing was new here. It was the same old hurt.

“Why?” Dorian asked, anger finally bursting to the surface. “So you can spout more convenient lies?”

His father sighed and shook his head, “This is how it has always been.”

“I may have fallen for your ‘kind’ remonstrations in my pampered youth, Father, but I will not now, and the Trevelyans are smarter than that.”

“Damn right,” Leo muttered, not relaxing his battle stance.

“I will not live a lie,” Dorian ground out.

“I only wanted what was best for you!”

“You wanted the best for _you_! For your fucking legacy! Anything for that! _You_ hated blood magic—until it could give you what you wanted.” His already-bruised heart cracked, and he sobbed, “You tried to _change_ me!”

“If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition . . .” That’s right, his father always assumed everything was about him.

“You didn’t. I joined the Inquisition because it’s the right thing to do.” He took a shaky breath. “Once I had a father who would have known that.”

Of course his father always had a ready answer. A reasonable one.

“Once I had a son who trusted me. A trust I betrayed. I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me.”

Dorian had fallen into this trap before, but it still clutched at his heart, like talons. As overwhelmingly seductive as an unavoidable illness. Every time he hoped it would be different, that the promise to love would stay. It never did. “You’re—you’re asking me to forgive you? Again?”

“Do I want to know what needs forgiving?” Leo asked.

His father’s eyes widened with panic, “Dorian, there’s no need to—”

“I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves.”

“So that’s what all of this about? Who you sleep with?” Karl sheathed his blades and stood up straight, green Fade magic still spinning around his left hand. His anger had not lessened. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Leo kept his weapons ready.

“I am his only heir.”

“And the Magister title is hereditary,” Karl said, face twisted as if the words tasted as sour as they sounded. “Tough shit, my lord. Dorian only goes where he wants to go. Appoint someone else.”

-

Karl wanted to spit on the floor. Halward Pavus was more vile than he’d initially thought. As soon as he had stepped from the shadows, Dorian had frozen like a horse encountering a wolf.

“So, it is you who keep my son from me,” Halward shook his head. Just like Giselle. Just like Lady Trevelyan. Because age and rank and righteousness in the Maker’s eyes made them better. Because loving someone below your station was tantamount to heresy. Refusing to bed a woman— _abnormal_.

The Magister was skilled, wielding honeyed words and an even tone. It may have worked on someone who didn’t know him. Someone who hadn’t played the Grand Game. Someone who had not learned first-hand what it was like to be a parent’s puppet. All four men in the room knew better, and Karl would bet ten sovereigns that Lace did, too. Leliana didn’t hire people who couldn’t read between the lines.

It was all a smoke screen disguising a snake’s venom.

The serpent made one more attempt to wrap himself around Dorian, pleading, “Forgive me. Come home.”

“I . . .” Dorian’s voice wavered with unshed tears. “I don’t think I can.” He spun on his heel, sidestepped around Leo, and bolted out the tavern door.

“Quinn will watch after him,” Lace shouted down. “We’ve got time to deal with this one.”

“Inquisitor, I thank you for providing for my son’s welfare. I’m sure your coffers have been strained much in your endeavor against the Venatori. I will compensate—”

“No,” Karl said firmly. The fucker was _still_ trying to get to Dorian through him. “We don’t want your money. We want you gone. Lord Trevelyan and Scout Harding will escort you back to your ship. Do yourself a favor: Stay in Minrathous.”

He willed the Mark on his hand to rein its magic back in. His palm itched for a brief moment before the sensation faded.

Lace skipped down the stairs two at a time. “And I’m sure Magister Tilani will want to know about your meddling in affairs down South,” she said. “You know, her dead husband’s cousin is one of Dorian’s travel companions. Maybe he’d like you to take her a letter.”

Halward swallowed hard, eyeing them all nervously.

Karl doubted Varric wanted to send anything with Magister Pavus, but he appreciated the pressure Lace was willing to apply. Although Dorian had only mentioned her in passing, it was clear Maevaris Tilani was one of the few friends Dorian had back home. It was good to remind Halward that Dorian had powerful allies there.

Anger still simmered below the surface, but Karl was confident the danger was over. He left the tavern, hoping Dorian would still be in sight.

He was. Down in the village center, Dorian stood alone, staring up at the giant griffon statue that served as a memorial for the Hero of Ferelden. The sun shone down on Dorian’s black hair, his beautiful moustache, his bare shoulder. Karl loved how Dorian’s mage armor showed off the sculpted muscle of his upper arm. The sun turned his olive skin bronze.

But the expression on his upturned face was blank. Vacant. Dorian’s usual confidence was gone. His tearful outburst in the tavern had wrenched Karl’s heart, but this was worse. He looked empty. Defeated.

“A beautiful picture, yes?” an unfamiliar Orlesian voice asked.

Karl spun around.

A man hid in the shadows beside the tavern. He wore a shiny doublet and gold mask that obscured the upper two-thirds of his overly-pale face. What kind of ego strode around Ferelden alone, dressed in such fashion?

The shadows behind him flickered; Quinn had silently dropped down from the ridge behind the tavern. Karl didn’t give her away. He kept his eyes on the Orlesian.

“Inquisitor!” he tapped his fingers together gleefully. “Good, good, this is exactly what I was hoping for!”

Great. Another conniving rat who wanted a piece of his power. Karl wished they’d all just go away. Accosting him was a mistake; it immediately made him want to say no. He raised an eyebrow, “You have me at a disadvantage, Monsieur.”

“Ponchard de Lieux, my lord.” He did not bother to bow. Mistake number two. Three, if you counted showing up in Redcliffe in that garb.

Karl remained silent and Ponchard shifted nervously on his feet.

“Do forgive me, Inquisitor, but when I heard of your . . . _association_ with Monsieur Pavus, I could not resist.”

“Resist what? Tailing the Magister here? Interfering with his son’s business? What do you think Halward Pavus would do to you if he found out?”

Ponchard glanced nervously at the docks. “No need to involve the Magisterium, Monsieur. I thought to do you a service. You see, the young man sold me a rather valuable amulet. Many months ago. Then he returned, asking to buy it back. Why would I simply sell it? Not only is it useful, there are others who could . . . offer much more. Provided, of course, you . . . desire the amulet? For your friend?”

“Do me a service,” Karl shook his head, lips curling into a predatory smile. “More like doing yourself a service.”

“I am not attempting to manipulate you, my lord,” he said, and then went right on attempting to manipulate him. He wasn’t even good at it. Perhaps he was a decent smuggler or sneak thief, but this man had never played the Grand Game in the same places Karl and Leo had.

“I only wish equitable recompense. The League de Celestine is an organization of wealthy noblemen in Orlais. I would join, but I lack the lineage. If someone like you applied pressure, they would admit me. _That_ would be worth the return of the amulet. I wish only to—” he gasped and froze as Quinn pressed a tip of her knife against his back, just under his ribs.

“You prattle too much,” she said. “Have you _ever_ tried to blackmail a proper noble before?”

“Mademoiselle, I assure you—”

“Shut up,” she said mildly, patting his pockets, checking his boots, and finding nothing. “Hasn’t got it on him. Want me to drag him off in the trees, make him tell me where he hid it? We can dump the body in—”

“ _Mademoiselle_ , please! Violence is not necessary.”

She sighed. “I thought I told you to shut up.”

Ponchard pinched his trembling lips together.

Of course Quinn wouldn’t kill him, but he didn’t need to know that.

Karl took a step closer, tilting his head menacingly. It was fun to be on the winning side of this game for a change. “You must not know who I am, even beyond being the Inquisitor.”

“You are a Trevelyan, Monsieur. A man of noble blood, a man of honor . . .”

“A man who could destroy your hopes of social climbing.”

“Forgive me, Your Worship. If it is your desire, I will have the amulet delivered to Skyhold immediately. Please just think of me kindly. I meant no offense.”

“You _did_ intend offense, Ponchard, but I will accept your free return of the amulet. I will also remember your attempts to manipulate House Pavus, House Trevelyan, and the Inquisition founded by the Right and Left Hands of the Divine.”

Ponchard’s face went from pale to stark white.

“Scout Quinn will escort you to Corporal Vale’s camp, where you will be assigned an armed guard to accompany you until the amulet has been returned to its proper owner. You will be free to go once Lord Pavus has verified the article is genuine.”

“I would never—”

“Don’t anger me, Ponchard. Your life is forfeit if you don’t make amends.” The man was a worthless bug who had gotten lucky. Karl wouldn’t have even bothered with him, if he hadn’t been in possession of something Dorian wanted returned.

“I understand, Monsieur.”

-

The buzz of fear in Dorian’s chest had abated, leaving him . . . empty. The villagers of Redcliffe went about their lives, oblivious to their near-miss: Had a fight erupted in the tavern, he, his father, or even Karl could have leveled the village with a single gesture. It was disheartening to know he had placed them all in danger’s path.

He stared up at the griffon statue, a tribute to Ferelden’s dearly departed Katherine Cousland, Hero of Ferelden. Behind him, the local storyteller spoke to a rapt group of children about how Connor Guerin had set a demon loose on the village when he was a child, as part of a bargain to save his poisoned father’s life. What a depressing reminder of how wrong family could be.

The statue’s proud wings rose high above him, making him feel . . . small.

“Hey,” Karl came up to stand beside him. “Are you all right?”

“No. Not really. Thank you for bringing me out here. It wasn’t what I expected, but . . . it’s something.” It was an inadequate response, considering the magnitude of his father’s self-absorbed cruelty. Dorian had told Maevaris and Felix about it all: the arguments, the manipulations, the kidnapping . . . the great Magister’s plan to make Dorian obedient with blood magic. They insisted he need not be ashamed; it was his father’s wrongdoing, not his.

“That is his misdeed, not yours,” Maevaris had said. “ _His_ shame. You are a good and worthy man exactly as you are.”

He wanted to believe her; on most days, he did.

He wanted Karl to know it all, too. He hoped Karl’s opinion of him would not change after the revelation.

“Let’s find someplace private to talk,” Dorian said, abruptly turning around and striding toward the village gate.

The storyteller had moved on to another tale. “The King loved Lady Cousland so much, that when she died, he adopted her mabari.”

“Ha!” one of the children jumped up, hands on his hips. “He’s just as Fereldan as the rest of us. He probably loved the dog more than the girl.” The other children laughed and the storyteller shook her head.

Dorian hurried past, anxious to avoid further tales of dead heroes and demon-possessed children.

“How about in here?” Karl jerked his head toward the wheelhouse. The shutters were pulled—no one on duty at the moment.

Dorian nodded his assent and followed Karl to the door. It was shaded from the sun, and no one across the way was looking in their direction.

Karl got down on one knee in front of the door, pulled a little leather kit from his jacket pocket. He slipped two metal lockpicks from it and had the door open within seconds.

A naughty thrill zipped through Dorian’s chest as the door clicked open. “I knew you had deft hands.”

“And fine tools,” Karl smirked back, stowing his picks away and bowing Dorian in. Karl closed and locked the door behind them.

They were alone in the dim cabin. A few tables stood in front of the empty hearth. The one in the corner was covered with full bottles of Fereldan liquors. The front window was shuttered, but the back window was not; it looked out over the steadily-turning water wheel. The sound of the flowing water should cover their conversation, should anyone put an ear to the door. It also was blighted romantic, when Dorian had planned a confession about blood magic, not a rendezvous.

“I don’t know if I can forgive him,” Dorian said without preamble, watching Karl’s sympathetic expression, waiting for it to turn to disgust.

“He tried to change you?” Karl asked gently.

“Out of desperation. I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me . . . acceptable. I found out. I left.”

Karl’s eyes widened, but he didn’t look ready to throw him out for his family’s sordid past. “Can blood magic actually do that?”

“Maybe. It could also have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn’t really want to go through with it. If he had . . . I can’t even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn’t like that Dorian.”

“I prefer this one as well.”

“Well . . . that’s something,” Dorian said, at a loss. Immediate acceptance was not what he’d expected.

“I mean it. I think you’re very brave, walking your own path.”

Karl _admired_ him. And not just for his body, his wit, charm, or time magic.

“Brave? I only left when I’d run out of options, to save my own skin. You’ve a lengthy reputation for spiriting mages to freedom, Lord Trevelyan.”

“You’re more than your pretty skin, Dorian,” Karl said, dead serious. “Much more.”

“Pretty?” Oh, he’d been called pretty before, by men who wanted a discreet “friend” just for one night of secret passion. But the word was different when it passed Karl’s lips. It made his heart pound a deafening rhythm.

“Yes,” Karl said, his seriousness melting into a bedroom smile that stole Dorian’s breath away. “You know you are.” He stepped closer. “Handsome.” Another step. “Gorgeous.” Another. “Beautiful.” They stood toe-to-toe, Karl’s moist breath warm on Dorian’s face. “Enticing,” he whispered the word, hovering a breath away from his lips. “If you want to teach me all the words in Tevene, I can be a _very_ good student.”

Mesmerized, Dorian watched Karl’s gaze shift to his left shoulder. “I love this,” Karl said, tracing his bare index finger along the skin between the straps, the light touch sending jolts of electric pleasure careening through his entire body. He hadn’t noticed when Karl had taken his gloves off.

His breath sped up, chest heaving with excited effort, despite his standing still. Each labored breath making Karl’s wandering finger press deeper in and out of his flesh. He wanted to groan. He wanted to whimper. He wanted to beg. Anything that would make Karl touch more of him.

Karl’s satisfied grin was maddening. He knew exactly what Dorian wanted and was drawing it out as long as possible. The beautiful bastard.

He wrapped his hand around Dorian’s bicep, massaged him with his thumb. He raised his other hand to Dorian’s face, as he had in Crestwood. “And I love this,” he said, rubbing his other thumb in circles over the little triangle of hair below his lower lip.

“Ohhhh,” Dorian did finally moan, closing his eyes, drowning in Karl’s administrations. His eyes shot open in shock when Karl leaned in and suckled on that little triangle of hair.

Karl pulled back with a wet pop. “So good.”

“I’ll show you good,” Dorian growled, grabbing Karl by the arms and yanking him closer. Karl laughed as they stumbled backward. Dorian’s back hit the wall, rattling the nearby table and all its bottles. He grabbed the back of Karl’s neck, yanked him in for a kiss, swallowed down his laughter.

When they’d kissed in the rain on the battlements, they’d had to twist to reach each other. Now they were pressed chest to chest, cock to cock, separated by their dusty armor, which made it very difficult to properly grind their hips together.

Karl moaned his name, moved his talented mouth to Dorian’s throat. “Too. Much. Clothes.” He said between nips and kisses.

Dorian reached up for the shoulder strap of his battle robes, then froze, the romantic whoosh of water behind Karl reminding him of where they were. What were they doing? They were in the middle of Redcliffe in broad daylight in a wheelhouse where the cabin owner might return at any moment.

Karl had his hands possessively on Dorian’s hips. His eyes were wide with desire, his lips swollen to the point of gorgeous from all their rough kissing. Dorian considered throwing caution to the wind.

“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” he said instead, braced for an angry outburst. To say no at this point was—

“Okay.”

“What?”

“It’s okay, Dorian. You’ve had a horrible day and here I am, taking advantage of you.”

Dorian snorted in disbelief. “I believe _I_ also took advantage of your tongue.”

“That you did. Most expertly,” Karl chuckled and slid back slowly, letting his hands drop to his sides. He picked up his gloves from where he’d dropped them on the table and slipped them back on.

“I’m curious where this goes, you and I,” Dorian said.

“Wherever you want, Dorian. Whenever you want. I can see you’re uncomfortable with people seeing us together. That’s fine. If you want me in secret, that’s fine. If you want me to kiss you on the front steps of Skyhold in front of everyone, I will. I’ll be happy with whatever makes you happy.”

“That’s . . . quite the proclamation. I take it you’re not the kind of man to . . . share.”

Karl shook his head, “No, if we’re to be together, I want it to be just us. But the most important thing is what you want: What do _you_ want, Dorian?”

“It’s not a question I’ve heard often.”

“Well, get used to it, because whatever you decide about ‘us,’ I’m never going to stop asking you what you want. You deserve the same courtesy everyone else in the Inquisition receives.”

There was a pounding on the door. “Hey, you two about done in there?” Leo shouted through the door. “Ow! Herald, your lead scout just hit me in the gut.”

“Serves you right!” Karl shouted back.

“The miller’s on his way back from the chantry,” Leo said, “if you want to make yourselves scarce before he gets home.”

“Yes, please, and quickly,” Dorian muttered, ushering Karl toward the door, while Karl made stupid kissy noises and dragged his feet.

But he behaved himself once they were in the open again, even took a few seconds to be a gentleman and lock the wheelhouse door.

“You know, Dorian,” Karl said casually as they rode out the village gates together, “We’re going down to the Fallow Mire before heading back to frozen Skyhold. If you want to back out, now would be a good time. Plenty of sun and blankets here.”

Dorian frowned. Karl had seemed sincere in the wheelhouse. He wasn’t actually trying to be rid of him, was he?

“I won’t abandon you,” Dorian said sternly.

“Good,” Karl’s smug smile was entirely too sexy.

The beautiful bastard.


	20. A Place of My Own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata/works), [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works), [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works), and [Tessa1972](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessa1972/gifts). Thank you to SnuggleBonnet for your insights on editing and character. Thank you to Liz for answering my horse questions.

Leo was relieved to find Cassandra, Varric, and Quinn sharing Corporal Vale’s campfire. The tense meeting with the Magister had drained him as much as a demon battle and he was glad not to scour the King’s road looking for their traveling companions.

As they approached and dismounted, Cassandra leapt to her feet, wringing her hands with worry. “Inquisitor! We have troubling news.”

“Is there any other kind?” Karl asked. He sighed and leaned his cheek against Ace’s proud neck.

“Inquisition agents have been taken hostage in the Fallow Mire.” Vale handed him a field report. “Their clan leader demands a duel with you.”

Karl accepted the parchment and read it himself.

“Fuck me!” Karl threw his hands up in the air and Dorian put a calming hand on his shoulder. “Fucking fanatics! _My god’s better than yours, so I’m going to attack your people_. Fucking idiots. I don’t even give a flying fuck about the Maker or his _bride_ ,” Karl spat out.

Leo flinched at the crude words. Karl was justified, considering what their parents and the Chantry had done to him growing up, but their failings weren’t the will of the Maker. And it was a bad idea to let the rest of the world know the Herald of Andraste held no love for the Maker.

At least the only soldier within earshot was Corporal Vale, who appeared unfazed by Karl’s outburst. Cassandra glared, but Leo didn’t think she’d abandon them or their mission. She’d declared the Inquisition herself, put Karl forward as its leader. She’d want to prove Karl wrong, bring him into the fold.

The soft pounding of small boots on dry grass startled Leo from his ruminations.

Lace had run back to her horse.

“Lace, wait!” Leo rushed after her as she hopped up on a tree stump to reach the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. She pulled hard on the reins, to turn her mount, but he was there just in time to grab hold of the bridle.

The horse jerked his head angrily, pawed great chunks of earth up with his hoof.

“Leo!” Karl said, “Are you _trying_ to get your stupid face kicked in?” Leo ignored him.

Lace yanked against Leo’s grip again and the horse whinnied in protest, his ears stiff and twitching, but he did not rear.

“Lace! Lace!” Leo called up to her and she finally looked down, eyes wide and unseeing.

“He can’t have them,” she said. “Not again.”

“Ser,” Quinn said quietly, slowly rising from her seat. Leo could barely hear her, but Lace turned to look. “This time is different. We can save them.”

Shit. Leo had felt bad about the people they’d lost to the berserker on the Storm Coast, but Lace had _seen_ the bodies, written the letters to the families. Faced and killed their murderer. He couldn’t imagine the depths of what she felt now.

Lace blinked down at Leo, eyes wide with panic, and he finally realized his mistake. Even a novice knew better than to run up to another rider like that. She could kick him in the face just as easily as the agitated horse could trample him. It had been stupid to get in her way, but any sudden movement he made now would result in significant injury to all three of them.

“We will,” he finally remembered his calm voice, to soothe both horse and rider. “I promise.”

With a sob, she threw herself out of the saddle and into his arms. He took a stumbling step backward and sank to his knees, clutching her as tight to his chest as their armor would allow.

The horse snorted in irritation, trotted off to Varric, and dipped his neck to push at him with his head.

“Hey!” Varric took a stumbling step sideways. “I don’t want you, you big beast.”

The animal nickered and mouthed at the top of Varric’s head.

“Ick! Fine, here,” Varric pulled an apple out of his pocket. He bit off a chunk and offered the piece in his open palm. “Go, find yourself a Trevelyan.”

The horse nibbled the fruit down and trotted off to Karl.

“I’ve got him,” Karl stepped forward and took the reins. “Quinn, can you help me brush them out?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Cassandra,” Karl said, and the Seeker jumped. She’d been staring at Leo and Lace. Leo didn’t care. Let the whole fucking world stare.

“Maybe you could get out the hoof picks?”

“Oh! Yes, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, tearing her gaze away and hurrying after the others, leaving Leo kneeling in the dry, trampled grass of the Crossroads, Lace Harding finally in his arms.

She clung to his collar, her face buried in his neck. Her tears soon subsided into hiccups, and she straightened with a sigh, leaving a hand on his shoulder. Her fair, freckled cheeks were blotchy from crying, her red-rimmed eyes still the most gorgeous green he’d ever seen. He wanted to wipe away her tears, but she was already pulling out her handkerchief and scrubbing at her face.

“Ugh, crying makes my nose stuffy.”

“It’s a cute nose. Very pretty,” he amended, not wanting her to think he thought her too youthful.

“Heh,” she dismissed the compliment and stuck the handkerchief in her pocket. “We saw some gruesome things on the Storm Coast, Leo. We did some gruesome things.”

“Whatever you want to tell me or not tell me is fine. Any time, any place.”

“Yeah, well,” she eased away and he wanted to beg her not to move. “Camp chores need to be done,” she said.

He opened his mouth, ready to say they could wait, but she took him by the hand and the words caught in his throat.

She pulled him to his feet. “Come on, Leo. It’s not fair to leave your brother with all the horse work.”

When they walked up hand-in-hand, Cassandra threw them a furtive glance and Varric smiled.

-

It was a good thing that thoughts of Karl kept Dorian’s blood warm, because the Fallow Mire was a Maker-forsaken swamp. A stagnant swamp drenched in constant rain. A couple of half-flooded gravel paths lead them further into the depressing interior, toward the Avvar stronghold where Inquisition agents were held hostage.

At a camp on the outskirts, they left the horses with Scout Quinn and a handful of soldiers, and slogged forward through the muck on foot.

The first bridge they came to had rotted away, but the water was only ankle-deep. They waded through.

As soon as he touched the water, Dorian knew it was a mistake. He felt the undead before they stirred in the water. The rambling corpses rose swiftly, bringing mud and a decaying fish smell with them. Some carried rusted swords; others carried bows that had somehow survived the depths of the swamp.

“Uh,” Lace readied her bow and took her battle stance at Leo’s side. “You’re not squeamish about undead are you?”

“Not my favorite,” Leo confessed, pulling his weapons.

“Dorian, can you do anything about them?” Karl asked.

“Of course,” Dorian said. “I could command them to fight at your side, but it would be a rather slimy endeavor with a tremendous odor. Or . . .”

“Or what?” Karl asked, tensing as a corpse raised its sword and ran straight for him.

Dorian raised his hand and hit the rambler with immolate. It fell into a soggy, smoldering heap in the mud. “I could burn them. More sanitary, less smelly.”

“Do it,” Karl said.

Dorian didn’t even bother to pull his staff. This was child’s play. A few fire spells at running corpses and his companions didn’t have to fight a one.

Cassandra plowed ahead to check the integrity of the next bridge. Leo and the dwarves were close on her heels. None of them wanted to dither here any longer than Dorian did.

“You, uh, have any of that oil?” Karl asked, nose wrinkled.

“Which kind?” Dorian suggestively waggled his eyebrows.

Karl smiled and licked his tongue over his upper teeth. “That mint stuff you put over your beautiful moustache so you don’t smell the stink.”

“Ah, yes, that,” Dorian pulled the bottle from his belt pouch and handed it over. Karl rubbed some under his nose and handed the jar back.

Further up the path, they encountered a Fade rift guarded by a handful of wraiths and undead. They quickly dispatched the demons and Karl closed the rift.

Watching him do that always gave Dorian glorious goosebumps, no matter what the temperature was. It could be due to the blast of extra mana that always accompanied the sealing of the rift—it washed over his skin like a rejuvenating bath—but it likely had more to do with the beautiful man closing rift than the rift itself.

Not five minutes later, they encountered an Avvar brute carrying a two-handed war hammer, but the Avvar did not want to fight. The gentle giant of a man called himself Sky Watcher and warned them that the Avvar chieftain’s son was up at the stronghold, ready to kill them to show his power.

“Foolish whelp, to pick a needless fight. Especially against you, Herald.”

“You know me?” Karl asked.

“No other lowlander would brave the Mire, and I saw you heal a tear in the sky. You have the Lady’s favor.”

“Lady of the Sky likes us, huh?” Varric asked, and the Watcher nodded gravely. “Good to know,” Varric said, but kept his crossbow ready just the same.

Karl bid the Watcher farewell and led the way ahead with a grim confidence that Dorian hoped he could emulate. Dorian was a creature who craved light, and the damp night sapped his spirit in ways a rejuvenating potion could not touch.

Varric trotted to keep pace with them. “Let’s hope the chieftain’s whelp respects the Lady as much as our burly friend back there. If so, he won’t hurt the hostages before the duel.”

Harding released a muffled squeak, and Karl looked over his shoulder briefly without slowing his pace.

“How do you know that, Varric?” Cassandra demanded, her scowl no more thunderous than usual.

Varric offered her a sly smile, “I don’t just write, Seeker. I read.”

Cassandra grunted in disgust and they continued on in relative silence, only the sickening suck of the mud at their boots punctuating the steady fall of rain.

They tromped up a low hill and stopped short. A thick stone column blocked the path. On one side was a cold metal brazier.

“What’s with the empty veilfire torch?” Varric asked. “There’s no temple around here.”

“To summon the dead,” Cassandra and Dorian said in unison, then looked to each other in surprise.

“Your mortalitasi rites are secret,” Dorian said. “How ever did you come to know of veilfire’s use in summoning?”

Cassandra raised her sharp chin and lovely aristocratic nose, “As a Seeker, it is my duty to read about such forbidden things.”

“Forbidden outside Nevarra, you mean,” Varric said, and she glared at him.

“Can it help us?” Karl asked. “We’re in a bit of a hurry, so if you’re just admiring the artifacts, we should move on.”

“The beacon can summon the ramblers from the pond while we have the high ground,” Dorian said, liking the idea the more he thought about it. “I burn them quickly, and you move on faster with fewer undead popping up in your path.”

“Okay,” Karl drew his weapons. “Do it.”

With a flick of the wrist, Dorian lit the veilfire torch.

The ground shook beneath their feet. The rank water at the base of the hill bubbled. And there was the distinct screech of several terror demons announcing themselves at once.

“Well, shit,” Varric spun to be back-to-back with Harding, who took her battle stance at Leo’s side.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Dorian cursed under his breath, pulling his staff and laying a barrier over them all.

“They must have wandered off from the rift before we closed it,” Karl said. “We’ve felled plenty of terrors before. We got this.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Leo muttered, “and Skyhold’s a summer paradise.”

Unlike ramblers, terrors tended to pop out of the ground, right under your feet. You either went flying, or they tore out your midsection before you knew they were there.

Dorian was quite fond of his midsection and hoped to keep it. He bent his knees and opened his arms wide, as ready to dodge as he was to cast magic.

Three terrors took jerky steps up the hill, teeth barred and talons out. One released another howl when Harding and Varric loosed arrows and bolts into it. Cassandra pounded her sword on her shield, yelling a taunt. All three demons eyed her and crouched, ready to melt into the ground.

“Hey!” Karl’s shout startled Dorian’s heart into a racing rhythm. It was blighted stupid to taunt a demon after your better-armored fighter had already distracted them. “Don’t suppose any of you know where Corypheus is?”

Leo snorted in amusement and shook his head.

The demons shrieked.

“No?” Karl asked. “Okay, have some bees, courtesy of Red Jenny.”

With a move as graceful as it was powerful, Karl launched a glass jar at the terrors. It shattered at their feet, releasing a swarm of angry insects. The demons flailed their arms and gnashed their teeth, yelling even louder.

“Ice, Dorian!” Karl shouted.

Though he preferred fire, the Winter’s Grasp spell came to Dorian as easily as any other. The panicked terrors were close enough together that he caught them all in the blast. Cassandra shattered one with a shield bash, Leo got the second, and the archers exploded the third.

With a simple snap of his fingers, Dorian brought up a fire wall to wipe out the ramblers that had lumbered up the hill behind the terrors.

“See?” Karl said. “Piece of cake.”

“Moldy cake,” Leo muttered.

“That ice spell is impressive,” Karl grinned. “Need me to warm your hands, Dorian?”

Heat rushed across Dorian’s skin, quick as a flame thrust upon dry kindling. There was a great deal more than his hands that he wanted Karl to warm, but Dorian didn’t trust himself to answer aloud in polite company. He settled for a smoldering look.

“Ugh,” Cassandra tromped onward.

Leo snorted and dragged Lace further ahead. The rest followed in relative silence, and once more the slugging suck of mud at their boots was the only noise they made.

They encountered three more beacons along the route to the Avvar’s stronghold. As Karl wished, Dorian lit the torch at each. He froze terrors and rage demons, which Cassandra and the others swiftly dispatched, and then set the ramblers aflame.

“How long can you keep this up?” Karl murmured in his ear, his hot breath welcome on this chilly evening.

Dorian used their proximity as an excuse to lean their shoulders together as they walked. Karl snaked his arm around Dorian’s waist and Dorian nearly purred. He leaned his lips a little closer to Karl than was strictly necessary to respond.

“I’ve no shortage of mana, if that’s what you mean. And I’m told my stamina is to be admired.”

Karl laughed and gave Dorian’s ass a pat as he let his arm fall back to his side.

Harding looked over her shoulder with a concerned frown. Apparently, levity was not allowed until she’d secured the safe return of their people.

The courtyard in front of the Avvar fortress was crawling with more ramblers. Dorian wasn’t tired, but it was getting rather annoying to deal with so many undead.

“Just run through!” Karl said, pulling his weapons.

Dorian led the charge with Karl, thrusting flames before them like the pointed head on a pike. Alarmed shouts rose from the battlements. He didn’t understand the words of the guttural language, but the tone was universal: _Alarm! Invaders._

It was not a pleasant business, invading someone’s home, but they should not have taken Karl’s people.

The front portcullis fell behind them, nearly catching on Varric’s coattails.

“Fuck!” The dwarf rolled and set a shot off toward the upper balcony, at the guard who had pulled the gate lever.

The bolt hit him square in the chest and the man fell to the lower level with a sickening thud. His bare, well-sculpted chest was painted in a white, gray, and black pattern—likely a camouflage for patrolling the surrounding countryside. The paint did not run in the rain, nor with the blood that gushed from his fatal wound. He lay dead, vacant eyes open like glass orbs toward the raining sky.

Dorian sighed. Killing Venatori gave him a grim sense of accomplishment. This was just a pointless waste. Before the kidnappings, there had been no reason for the Herald of Andraste to war with the Avvar.

Cassandra leapt in front of Dorian, deflecting a volley of arrows from two archers on the upper balcony. Two warriors with massive shields ran past the archers, making for the steps down into the inner courtyard.

In tandem, Karl and Leo whipped out their grappling chains, and Dorian barely got a barrier down over them before they went flying up over the balcony to down the archers. One of the shield warriors spun back around to face the Trevelyans. Dorian caught both warriors in an ice spell; Harding and Varric shot them down.

Karl led the way up a steep, slippery hill and long flight of stone steps to the main fortress. Half the ceiling was gone over the damp, dilapidated main hall, where an Avvar even taller and broader than the Sky Watcher swung a mighty war hammer.

“You die here, Herald!” he shouted. He was flanked by two archers and a burly warrior with a shield as tall as a grown man.

“Let us parley!” Karl announced, lifting up his left hand, palm toward the skies. The Mark crackled forth with green Fade magic, the sphere of spinning magic growing to surround his hand.

“I have sealed the rift that plagued your road. Banished the demons. I healed the sky! I have the Lady’s favor. Your own Sky Watcher has proclaimed it.”

The archers and shield warrior exchanged nervous looks, but the chieftain’s son laughed. “No lowlander is worthy! You die now!”

He charged down the steps.

Leo and Varric cursed.

Dorian cast a barrier.

Karl twisted his hand, ready to release the energy of the Mark.

_Thwatt_. Harding’s arrow hit the speeding warrior dead in the eye and he careened down the rest of the stairs, rolling to a stop, face down.

-

Steady rain pattered down through broken roof, ran in little gray rivers down past the body on the floor.

Like the Lady’s tears.

Lace shed none.

“Nobody messes with my people,” she told the dead man, and turned her steely gaze toward the three remaining Avvar. “Do you speak Trade Tongue?”

“We do,” one of the archers stepped forward. Her face paint pattern was similar to the one worn by the guard Varric had killed at the gate. She gestured for her surviving companions to step back. They did, but kept a tense grip on their weapons.

“Where are the prisoners?” Lace demanded. “Let them go, and no one else dies.”

She desperately hoped no one else would die. The three Avvar on the dais looked frightened, not fanatical, braced for a fight their leader had invited into their own territory. They were young and well-equipped, but no match for the Trevelyans’ party.

“They are all free to go,” the Avvar woman pointed to an alcove at the base of the stairs, where a thick wooden door was cloaked in shadows.

Cassandra and Varric ran to it. Varric smashed the lock with the butt of his crossbow and threw the door open. “Everyone all right?” he asked.

“Thank the Maker!” one of the agents called out. “No major injuries, Ser, but we should check in with a healer back at camp.”

Karl dropped his hand and the green light of the Mark winked out. Without a word, he spun on his heel and walked out, Dorian hurrying after him.

Leo remained at Lace’s side, weapons ready.

“Should I have let the Herald handle this?” she asked in an undertone only he could hear. She’d taken the lead like she had on the Storm Coast, not thinking about how she was no longer in charge.

“No,” Leo said, not taking his eyes off the Avvar. “He answered the challenge; you took care of Leliana’s people. You did the right thing, Lace. All of it.”

She wished that was the end of it. Wished that they were alone, so she could ask him if he would hold her again, or if he’d only caught her at the Crossroads because she’d flung herself at him, giving him little choice but to catch.

But they weren’t alone. And Leo had just affirmed her as the lead agent present. So she helped evacuate the Inquisition agents; she assured the surviving Avvar that the Inquisition would leave their territory, just as soon as the Herald closed any rifts in the area.

Out front of the keep, she found Karl talking with the Sky Watcher.

“My hand itches,” Karl said, pointing northwest. “There’s another rift somewhere over there.”

They slogged through more bogs, through hidden gardens between high walls of weathered stone, until Karl found the rift. Cassandra decapitated the terror demon before it could scream, Dorian ended the despair demon with a fireball, and the rest of them picked off the wraiths.

“You okay?” Karl asked Dorian, cupping his cheek with his hand.

“Yeah,” Dorian answered softly.

It was a simple response, raw and honest, with none of the flash Dorian usually presented.

A yearning twisted in Lace’s chest and she turned away, jogging off to join the others and give Karl and Dorian a little privacy.

-

The ride from the Fallow Mire to Skyhold was tiring and messy. They exchanged chilly mud for frigid snow. Once they were up in the mountains, at least Leo could enjoy the sun on his face.

When they finally rode through the gates of Skyhold, a whirlwind of people met them, led by Ambassador Montilyet and her clipboard.

Leo had hoped for a quiet conversation with Lace while they brushed out their horses in the stables, but their mounts were handed off to stablehands, Lace and Cassandra went to report to the Spymaster, a footman of Josephine’s led Varric and Dorian away to find their rooms, and Josephine insisted she show Karl and Leo their rooms herself.

“Your appointments must reflect your positions,” Josephine said, swinging open Leo’s door.

It was small and sparse by Lady Trevelyan standards, but the furniture and bedding were of high noble quality and the balcony in front of the door overlooked the fortress’ herb garden.

Most people living at Skyhold were crammed into bunks on the lower levels, or camped in tents on the frozen ground. He and Karl would have been content to camp below, but Josephine wouldn’t allow it.

“We need noble alliances,” she said, gesturing with her quill. “A Marquis is more likely to pledge his troops in the fight against Corypheus if he thinks the Inquisition’s leadership takes their positions seriously. His captain may appreciate your willingness to mingle with the soldiers, but it is the captain’s _employer_ whom you must impress, if we are to secure aid.”

“This is really nice,” Karl said, peering around Leo’s shoulder. “Am I next door?” He headed further down the balcony.

“No, Inquisitor,” Josephine said, striding for the stairs. “Please follow me.”

Karl shrugged and followed. Leo closed his door and trotted after them.

Josephine led them down the garden steps and through the keep’s great hall, to a door hidden in the shadows to the left of the Inquisitor’s “throne.” Karl gave the throne a disgusted look before following Josephine through the door.

Karl’s room was at the top of two sets of steep stone stairs. Leo had to take a deep breath when they reached the top, but Josephine breezed on ahead.

“That’s a lot of steps,” Karl panted out, grinning. “Let’s hope the balcony view is as nice as yours—holy shit.”

Leo was impressed, too. The chamber was as large as his own room at Ostwick. Stained glass Orlesian doors opened out onto dual balconies that flanked well-stocked bookshelves and a heavy, ornate desk. Between the stairs and the nearest balcony was a fireplace, already laid with a cheerily burning fire.

Across from the fire was a giant Fereldan bed covered in plump pillows and a silk duvet. An armoire sat to one side, a door to a walk-in dressing room on the other. _And_ there was an indoor balcony over the bed, complete with a statue of a giant bird opening its wings to fly off.

“Uh,” Karl said, eyes wide. “I don’t need this.”

Josephine paused her note taking to look up and pin him with a pointed look. “I do not care whose boudoir or tent you sneak into, as long as you are seen entering this room every evening and exiting it every morning.”

Karl gave a nervous chuckle. “Of course, Ambassador.”

She nodded and headed for the stairs. “I will leave you to settle in, Inquisitor. Shall we meet in my office, say, in twenty minutes?”

“Yeah,” Karl said, distracted.

“Josie,” Karl spun around and she paused. “Thank you.”

Her answering smile was full-on Antivan beauty. “I shall see you in twenty minutes, Inquisitor.”

Karl took a step toward the bed, hesitantly reached out his hand, then touched his fingers to the silk duvet.

“Pretty enough for Dorian?” Leo asked, trying to keep his tone light, but respectful.

“Yeah,” Karl ducked his head bashfully and ran the palm of his hand over the silk. “Only, he’s not comfortable with other people seeing me kiss him or holding his hand, so he probably doesn’t want to be seen entering my—my—what _is_ this, my room? My house?” He looked up with an incredulous smile.

“It’s yours, Karl. You don’t have to let anyone in here. Or you can invite whoever you want.”

Karl nodded his understanding and wandered toward the dressing room. Now would be a good time to leave, let him get used to having his own space.

“I’ll just—”

“Please stay,” Karl said, gripping the door jam with tense fingers. He had one foot into the dressing room, his back to Leo.

“Of course. Whatever you want.”

“Huh, ‘whatever I want.’ It only took the end of the world to get it.” Karl turned, eyes brimming with tears.

Leo had no good answer for that.

“I’ve never had my own place before, where I can come and go as I please.”

“I know,” Leo said, swallowing back his own sudden urge to cry. “I know.”

Karl stepped forward, arms open in hesitant offer, and Leo embraced him, finally letting the tears fall.


	21. Masquerades and Birthrights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [Tessa1972](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessa1972/gifts), [geekyblackchic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyblackchic/works), [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works), [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata/works), and [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works). Thanks to SnuggleBonnet for cheering me on.

The next week flew by as if days were mere hours. Leo asked Dorian if he’d been practicing time magic again, and the mage laughed—but didn’t answer.

Leo “ran into” Lace at the stables every morning; in truth, he hung around with the horsemaster just so he could see her, and she pretended she didn’t know that was what he did.

This morning, she only had time to sneak her horse an extra apple and wink at Leo as she rushed on to a meeting with the Spymaster.

Leo sighed, watching the sun shine on her copper hair.

Another movement caught his eye and he looked up. Karl and Sera raced out of the east door of Cullen’s office, laughing wildly. Tama leaned nonchalantly on the wall next to the west door, her arms crossed over her chest. Once the elf and Karl had cleared the battlements, the Qunari straitened and ambled toward the tavern.

Leo briefly considered climbing up to Cullen’s office, just to make sure it wasn’t painted in fresh egg yolks or something equally nasty.

No, it would make him late for his meeting with Josephine, and she’d insist on knowing why. Better to pretend he hadn’t seen a thing.

In the keep, he consulted with Josephine about all the letters his parents and cousins were swamping her with. Then he met with Harritt for an armor fitting down in the Undercroft, before hiding away in the garden gazebo for five minutes of alone time. He needed the quiet to clear his mind before he had to join Karl and the others in the war room.

Leo would be eternally grateful to Josephine for her keen control of the war room. Long meetings with visiting dignitaries required a sharp attention that exhausted him. It was easier to navigate when Cullen didn’t attend; whenever he did, Leo and Josephine did everything they could to make sure Karl and Cullen never had to speak directly to each other. Fortunately, most of their visitors didn’t notice the sharp looks the Inquisitor and Commander exchanged.

Leliana appeared content to sit back and let the two tear each other to ribbons.

Cassandra was as brazenly militaristic and blunt-spoken as Cullen, so Josephine had convinced the Seeker she was not needed at most of their meetings.

Nothing affecting the Inquisition escaped the ambassador’s notice. Josephine had a firm grasp on everything from Cassandra’s relatives’ political dramas in Nevarra, to the latest elfroot shipment.

How did she arrange it all? There weren’t that many hours in a day. Leo wondered if Antivans didn’t sleep. Maybe their coffee imbued them with a magic wakefulness that eluded Marchers.

The other advisor who never looked tired, despite always wearing her chainmail and leather armor, was Leliana. Unless it was her turn to report, she kept fairly still, her hands clasped behind her back as she observed the proceedings. On more than one occasion, she’d startled Leo with an abrupt comment.

Just yesterday, he’d forgotten she was in the room until she’d interrupted Cullen with two words: “Pure speculation.”

Cullen had sputtered, gone red in the face, and started enumerating the virtues of the Templars he’d dispatched to the Emerald Graves—until Josephine guided him back to the task at hand: mapping the sources of lyrium that they could confirm actually existed.

Today, the purple circles under the blond warrior’s eyes didn’t appear as deep as usual. Leo hoped that would make for a smoother meeting.

-

Instead of sneaking kisses with Dorian in his little alcove of the library, Karl was stuck in yet another strategy meeting. They didn’t have any solid leads on Corypheus, so they were focusing on lyrium sources and discovering how far west the rifts had spread.

After Cullen gave his usual stiff, dry report on troop assignments, Karl ignored him and turned to Josephine, the one mostly likely to have useful insights on how to handle Celene.

“Red Templar sightings or not,” he said, “I’m still not thrilled about sending more agents into Orlais. We haven’t permission from the Empress.” He tapped the western side of the map. “It’s risky enough to seek out the rifts.”

Cullen scowled and opened his mouth, but closed it quickly when Josephine sent him a sharp look.

“Have we heard from Scout Ava?” Karl asked Leliana. “How do the Bull’s Chargers fare in Emprise du Lion?”

Then again, mentioning the Chargers might have been a mistake. Cullen’s frown deepened. He’d repeatedly voiced his concern over hiring an ex-Ben-Hassrath. It was one of the few things they agreed on, but Karl wouldn’t give the ex-Templar the satisfaction of admitting they shared even that in common.

“We have,” Leliana said. “They have evacuated the villagers from Sahrnia village and defeated the demon holding Suledin Keep. They have also taken Mistress Alban Poulin into custody.”

“Andraste preserve us!” Cullen said.

“Oh dear,” Josephine jotted something down with her quill.

Leo remained stoic at his side.

Karl buried his face in his hands for a moment, wishing he could banish the news as easily as the sight of the room. He would, however, keep his cool, or risk a lengthy tongue-lashing from Josephine after the meeting.

“Why did we arrest an Orlesian noble?” Karl asked when he looked up. “We’re not even supposed to _be_ in Orlais.”

“She sold her own villagers to the Red Templars to work in the Red Lyrium mines.”

“ _What?!_ ” Karl and Leo exclaimed in unison. Cullen shook his head and Josephine covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide.

“She says it was to prevent the Templars from kidnapping the other villagers,” Leliana’s expression remained impassive.

“Did Ava get the slaves out?” Karl asked.

“Some,” Leliana said. “Half had already succumbed to exposure or Red Lyrium poisoning, but the others are now under the care of the village healer. No Venatori or Templars survived our attack.”

“Good,” Karl ground out. “What do we do about Poulin?”

“We do have evidence that the funds paid for the slaves have been used to feed and shelter the remaining villagers. Prior to the Chargers’ assistance, they were trapped between the magic snowstorms and the Red Templars.”

“All right, fine,” Karl said, wishing the messy problem would just disappear. “Let her go, but let her know every penny from her own mines goes to the people to rebuild the village just as soon as I can get out there and close those rifts. Josie, can you write the Empress some kind of apology? One that won’t have her declare war on us?”

“Of course,” Josephine said. “I also must inform the Empress that we will be at her peace talks, as guests of the usurper Gaspard.”

It was as if the floor tilted under his feet. Karl leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the war table, anchoring himself to the world.

“You’ve made a bargain with the man who wants to invade Ferelden?” he asked weakly.

“Of course not, my lord. The Grand Duke hopes to seduce us to his cause during a social event. Celene is holding peace talks under the auspices of a Grand Masquerade, hosted by Grand Duchess Florianne at Halamshiral. Every power in Orlais will be at the Winter Palace. We must be seen there as well.”

She gestured toward him with her quill, “You _will_ be expected to dance.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Leo answered for them both while Karl mulled over what he could remember of Orlais’ royal family.

Gaspard de Chalons had been the previous emperor’s heir, but his cousin Celene had appealed to the Council of Heralds and been crowned Empress instead. Gaspard’s wife was responsible for the death of Celene’s parents, but Gaspard’s wife was killed by Celene’s father before her poison finished him off.

Florianne was Gaspard’s sister, and, apparently, on good enough terms with their cousin to play hostess to the negotiations in the Empress’ own palace.

Celene and Gaspard were ruthless. There would be literal backstabbing at these “peace talks” designed to end Orlais’ civil war.

He wanted to ignore the invitation to the Masquerade. He had an ancient darkspawn magister to find. He had to find a way to kill that ancient darkspawn magister.

But Fiona had said Corypheus would kill Celene.

Karl gripped the table tighter, willing away the unbidden memory of Fiona impaled in a red-tainted cell.

If Celene’s death was part of Corypheus’ plan, they at least had to ensure she survived her cousin’s party.

“Okay, Josephine, when is this Masquerade, and how soon after it can we leave to close all the rifts Ava’s been mapping for me?”

The rest of the meeting went swiftly.

After, Karl hurried for the rotunda. He wanted to ask Dorian to accompany him to the ball. The event would be more business than pleasure, but—

He stopped short in the main hall. In front of Varric’s fireplace sat Ponchard, with Quinn and Varric standing guard over him.

Varric poked at the Orlesian with his crossbow and Ponchard leapt to his feet, holding a gold amulet out in offering.

“The amulet, as promised, my lord,” Ponchard bowed.

Karl grabbed it and it hummed against his Marked palm. Definitely a mage’s amulet, then. Now to see if it was Dorian’s.

“Wait here,” Karl said. “Varric, if he moves before I give my leave, shoot him.”

Ponchard squeaked, Varric chuckled, and Quinn followed Karl as he raced through Solas’ office and up the stairs to the library.

He had an Altus to seduce.

-

The swift footfalls on the rotunda’s steps were now as familiar to Dorian as his own. He looked up from his tome, flirty smile ready when Karl leapt over the last three steps and rushed to his lovely, sun-filled armchair.

“Here it is,” Karl grinned, happier than Dorian had ever seen him. He held out an amulet on a gold chain.

Dorian stood and took the chain, and almost dropped it when the enchanted metal met his flesh, he was so surprised. The magic within beat with the same rhythm of his own blood, reached out to meld with his innate mana reserves.

It was _his_.

“ _The Pavus birthright_ ,” his voice came out overly-high, just as it had when they’d faced his father at Redcliffe. He tightened his grip on the chain, lest his trembling fingers drop his treasure. “How did you...? Why?”

“Why?” Karl frowned. “Why would I _not_? Wait, this is a _birthright_ amulet?”

“Yes,” Dorian clutched it to his chest. He might never be able to go home, but he was still of House Pavus, and his amulet was now back in his hands. He wouldn’t let it go again.

“Want me to kill him?” Quinn stood at the top of the stairs, her expression thunderous.

“Who?” Dorian asked.

“Ponchard,” Karl spat out.

Panic raced through Dorian’s chest. “Don’t—Don’t kill him! It was my foolish mistake.”

He’d been fresh on the run, and he’d made a lot of bad choices before he’d learned how to hide, where was safe to sleep, and how to find food with little coin. He had also been paranoid about his father using the amulet to find him, so he’d entrusted it to Ponchard, who had refused to sell it back once he’d returned his senses.

It hadn’t occurred to him that a trustee of a birthright would refuse to return it to its rightful owner. The scandal for Dorian would have been painful, but Halward or any other Magister would have obliterated Ponchard on the spot, if they’d found out.

“We won’t kill him,” Karl said with a disgusted sigh. “Dorian, don’t worry; nobody’s going to die over this.

“Quinn,” Karl turned to the scout. “Get him the fuck out of my fortress and make sure to check his pockets for valuables on the way out. Send _two_ guards to make sure he doesn’t get lost on his way home.”

“Yes, Ser!” Quinn genuflected, fist over her heart, then rose and gave Dorian a formal bow, “Lord Pavus.”

Dorian absently nodded in her direction. It was Karl’s irritated expression that captivated him. What lengths had the Herald of Andraste gone to in order to secure a Tevinter pariah’s property?

There was nothing comparable Dorian could give Karl in return. But he would try and try and try to make up some of the difference.

“I will repay you.”

Karl tilted his head, a confused expression on his face. “Dorian, it’s a gift.”

“I’ve received gifts before. This is something more.”

“Well, yeah,” Karl scowled. “It’s your birthright, so nobody should have kept it from you in the first place. But no matter what it was, or is, I got it back for you because I wanted to. That doesn’t mean you’re indebted to me.”

“But I am.” He regretted those three words as soon as they passed his lips.

“Dorian!” Karl’s cheeks flushed with anger.

“I understand you’re frustrated—”

“Frustrated?! No, Dorian, I’m not _frustrated_ , I’m _angry_. How could you believe that you need to barter for my affection? After all we’ve been through together, what have I done to make you think you owe me a _debt_? You think there’s some kind of fucking _ledger_ where I keep you beholden to me?! How little do you think of me?!”

“I don’t, Amatus!”

Dorian wanted to run, pretend the conversation was already over, but he didn’t look away. Best for his beloved to discard him quickly.

Funny, really. They hadn’t even fucked, which was usually how his relationships started.

But this was different. Wasn’t it?

“Do you think so little of _yourself_ , Dorian? I don’t think I could spend my life with someone—” Karl cut himself off, pressing his lips tight, like trapping the dangerous words before they could be spoken. But some of them had already slipped out.

Panic rose in Dorian’s chest. Karl was hurt. And it was his fault.

_I’m losing him._

The stolen kisses, the extra touches. They had been a brief interlude before the inevitable.

“You think I keep a fucking tally?!” Karl demanded, and Dorian flinched. The words had weight, like an armored fist.

A door slammed, startling them both.

Karl threw himself in front of Dorian, pulling a knife from his boot and facing the stairwell in a crouched battle stance.

The sight gave Dorian an immediate hard-on, despite his sorrow. No other man in the world moved with such powerful grace. Also, Karl shielded him—there must have been some part of Karl’s heart that found him worthy, despite his bumbling.

“Sorry,” Leo came up the stairs, hands open in a peaceful greeting. “The door was Solas. He wasn’t too happy when I asked him to leave.”

Maker, had everyone in the rotunda heard them?

Dorian glanced at the research table. The Tranquil assistant was not there, nor was the grumpy Fereldan mage who catalogued the fiction section. There was no noise from above, either, save for the rustle and occasional squawk of Leliana’s birds.

Had he actually managed to offend everyone in the building and make them leave, without even trying? No, Leo had _asked_ Solas to leave.

“May I offer you my room to continue this conversation?” Leo asked. “It’s not exactly neutral ground, but it’s probably the most privacy you’ll find in Skyhold.”

Karl gave a curt nod and returned his knife to its boot sheath, then strode off down the stairs.

Uncertain, Dorian glanced at Leo.

“Up to you,” Leo said mildly, as if this wasn’t the most life-altering decision Dorian had made since running away from his inheritance.

Anxious heart pounding, Dorian followed Karl.

At least the tense walk to Leo’s room was quick.

Karl slammed the door open and strode into the middle of the room.

That’s all it was: a single, sparse room, practically identical to the one Dorian himself had been assigned. He spared a brief moment to wonder how Lord Leo Trevelyan, future Bann of Ostwick, felt about being relegated to accommodations barely bigger than an apostate’s cell, but the stiffness in Karl’s shoulders let him know such musings were best left for later.

“You two need anything else?” Leo asked.

“No, thank you,” Karl said stiffly, back still turned. “Dorian, lock the door.”

“Good luck,” Leo whispered with a cheery wink that was at complete odds with his brother’s understandable attitude. He pulled the door shut on his way out.


	22. In Your Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [Tessa1972](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessa1972/gifts), [geekyblackchic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyblackchic/works), [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works), [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata/works), and [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works). Thanks to SnuggleBonnet for cheering me on.
> 
> NSFW.

With trepidation, Dorian snicked the lock into place.

“Why?” Karl asked, turning around. “Why is this some sort of _transaction_ for you?!”

It was a crude way to phrase it, but much more accurate than the Imperium’s euphemisms for such relationships.

“Amatus, I do not know how this is done. Where I come from, the love of men is never more than a momentary diversion. Anything between two men is about pleasure. It’s accepted, but taken no further.”

Karl looked stricken, his mouth open in a wordless response.

Dorian hastily added, “Not that that’s the case with us, far from it! I want us to work. I just don’t know how.” He took a deep breath, ignoring the fear that cowered deep within him. “Will you show me?”

Karl raised a hand as if to caress Dorian’s face, paused in mid-air. Without conscious thought, Dorian stepped forward, making the contact, turning his smooth cheek into Karl’s calloused hand, rejoicing in the discovery of how gentle those thick, powerful fingers could be, placed just so.

“Dorian,” Karl whispered reverently, eyes brimming with tenderness. “I’m sorry.”

His breath caught when Dorian turned and placed a soft kiss in his palm. The sound spurred Dorian’s bravery.

“Amatus,” he murmured against his skin—a lovely ebony several shades darker than his own bronze—and boldly licked the inside of Karl’s hand, smiling at the louder, clearly aroused, gasp that tore through the other man’s body.

Fear rushed away like flashfire. He yanked Karl’s hips flush up against his own, grinding their cocks together, rough fabric of linen and leather breeches between them, belts, buttons, and buckles roughly catching in a muted jangle that barely registered in his ears. Blood rushed through his head like an ocean tempest as Karl’s open lips came crashing down to meet his.

Open. Giving.

And demanding.

Tongues delved deep. Dorian greedily swallowed Karl’s heady groans, arched his throat up higher when Karl delved his fingers into his hair. He mimicked the motion, rubbing his palms over Karl’s smooth scalp. The rough evening stubble around Karl’s lips scraped across Dorian’s chin as Karl bent to suckle his neck and squeeze his ass.

Dorian blindly reached between them to untie Karl’s laces, but Karl leaned back, pulling on Dorian’s straps in a flurry of movement that had him undressed faster than he could undress himself.

With a laugh, Dorian toed off his boots and reached for Karl’s belt with one hand, using his other to guide Karl in for another kiss.

“Now it’s your turn—what’s this?” He found a small, hard lump in one of Karl’s pockets.

“Oh, um . . .” Karl’s brown cheek heated enticingly under his hand when Dorian pulled a vial of oil from his pocket. One could improvise without such things, but this way was certainly more pleasurable than going without. And spoke volumes about Karl’s willingness.

Anticipation lurched within him, but he kept his voice light. “Confident, were you?”

“Hopeful. I hadn’t thought we’d be in need of it so soon. I’d just acquired it and was going to leave it in my chambers.”

Dorian caressed his cheek, leaned in for another taste of Karl’s mouth.

Salt. Man. Need.

“We are definitely in need now, Amatus.” Vial still in hand, he wrapped his arms around him and dragged him down on the bed with an inelegant plop.

Karl laughed, kicking off his boots and shoving them over the edge. “You’ve the advantage of nakedness. What about me, trapped here in your arms?”

Dorian bolted upright. “Yes, a problem we must remedy at once.” He hurriedly divested Karl of his clothes—or at least tried to. The infuriating man grinned like a fool, placing soft little distracting kisses lazily over every inch of Dorian’s skin he could reach, and didn’t help at all.

“I thought you said you were hopeful,” Dorian huffed as he finally got Karl out of his breeches and chucked them across the room.

“Oh, yes, my darling Dorian”—Dorian’s heart hiccupped at that—“I’m hopeful.” Karl draped an arm over him, slowly nibbled his collar bone. “I’m confident.” He slowly slid a thick index finger up over Dorian’s nipple, sending fast electric shivers straight through his gut. “And determined to make our lovemaking last.”

For a brief moment, sound stopped. He barely registered Karl’s gentle hands gliding over his shoulders, exploring down his arms and back up again in a soothing caress.

_Determined to make our lovemaking last._

_Last? For how long?_

The future was always so brief.

He had to catch the proper mood again, before Karl noticed it slipping away.

“We will have plenty of time for lazy sex later,” Dorian quipped cheerfully. He wriggled out from under Karl and kneeled facing the headboard, a thick Fereldan-made monstrosity. Good. He needed something solid to hang on to.

He looked over his shoulder, shook his backside. “But, as we said, you’re _hopeful_ , and we are _definitely_ in need. Immediate need.”

The hot flash of desire in Karl’s eyes raised Dorian’s spirits again. He’d chosen the perfect position to get what he wanted. He licked his lips and tossed the vial of oil high over his shoulder. Karl caught it overhead with one hand, heated gaze never leaving Dorian’s face.

Dorian suppressed a shudder, holding back the growing heat behind his balls. If Karl could do that to him with just a _look_ —

The man was as erect as he was, but appeared to have more control over himself. With precise, fluid motions, Karl had the vial open and was coating his cock with one hand, offering Dorian the open container with the other. Dorian didn’t notice the bottle until Karl gave him a cocky half-grin and waggled it in front of him.

He snatched the bottle back.

“We’re both going to need some more, I think.” Karl cupped his hands upward for Dorian to pour more oil.

The scent of a Tevinter perfume hovered between them—pressed from flowers that only grew in the warmest parts of the north. Karl had brought him Tevinter oils impossible to find around here.

Dorian poured the rest into Karl’s cupped hands and set the bottle on the bedside table. He turned and held tight to the headboard.

His thighs trembled as Karl leaned over his back to take nibble on his earlobe.

“I said both of us,” Karl rasped out. “You, too, Dorian.” He slid his slicked left hand across Dorian’s ass, massing in firm circles as he moved nearer and nearer to his anus. He took Dorian’s right hand in his own, transferring oil to Dorian’s palm and guiding him down to touch himself. “You too.”

Dorian’s sweaty, straining left hand on the headboard, and trembling knees on the white cotton sheets were all that anchored him to the world. It took all his will not to break apart when their two joined hands moved along his throbbing cock. When Karl pressed two slick fingers inside, past his ring of oh-so-sensitive muscle, Dorian’s body jolted with molten pleasure, flinging his head back in silent ecstasy.

Karl chuckled against his neck and picked up the pace, squeezing Dorian’s cock harder and sucking his earlobe into his mouth.

In a fluid rush too fast for Dorian to follow, Karl pulled his fingers out and thrust his cock inside.

“Yes!” Dorian cried out. The bed shook, his back shook, his world shook. The pounding of Karl’s hips against his ass rocked more than his spine.

He couldn’t be first. He just couldn’t.

“Karl, fill me up. Come for me.”

He did. With a startled cry that shook them both.

The thrill of the frenzied brink he’d brought Karl to elevated Dorian’s arousal to dizzying heights. His vision was a blur of white light. He braced himself, ready to catch Karl’s exhausted weight on his back.

Only Karl’s energy was far from spent.

In a move surprisingly gentle for all its speed, he swept Dorian up and away from the headboard, laying him on his back on the soft sheets. “Both of us, Dorian,” he gasped between fast, hard kisses where their tongues met eagerly. “Both of us.”

His mouth gentled, though his pace did not. He ran quick little kisses down Dorian’s collarbone, down his sternum, down, down, down, with a sudden lap of tongue across his navel, making Dorian’s hips jerk up off the bed. Karl held him down with one hand and took Dorian’s entire cock deep into his mouth in one fluid stroke.

“Venhedis!” his hoarse cry came out barely above a whisper, and Karl chuckled around his cock, sending more vibrations up his middle, touching every quivering hair along the way. Dorian clutched at the sheets, but Karl reached out and guided his hands to hold on to his head, never slowing the ministrations of his mouth. His heated look demanded that Dorian watch.

Karl slipped his oiled fingers back in Dorian’s ass, prodding the same spot he’d worked before, driving Dorian breathless as he sucked him off. He slid up and down Dorian’s cock, swirling his tongue around the tip. Dorian’s lips silently cried Karl’s name.

Taking in Dorian’s cock deep again, Karl curled his fingers up, thrusting Dorian over the edge of ecstasy. He came with a silent shout, back arched as Karl swallowed him down with a lusty groan.

Air rushed back into Dorian’s heaving lungs. His hands hung limp on Karl’s shoulders while Karl licked his softening dick clean.

“Your,” Dorian panted, “enthusiasm . . .” He took a few more gulps of air. “Your enthusiasm is to be commended.”

Karl laughed and kissed his way back up Dorian’s stomach, nuzzled into the side of his neck. “Looks like you had fun, too.”

“Indeed.”

“Hang on a sec,” Karl eased away, his hand sliding along Dorian’s thigh. “Be right back.”

He rose and padded barefoot to the dressing table that held a little basin and water pitcher, along with a stack of fresh cloths and a tiny bar of basic Fereldan soap. That “soap” was probably the harshest product any half-sane person would dare let touch to skin.

Dorian shuddered and sat up. “Oh, no, you are not using frigid water to wash yourself.”

He hissed like a wet cat when he set his feet on the cold stone floor. “Not when you have a talented mage at your disposal.”

He placed one hand around the side of the basin, one against the side of the pitcher, and summoned just the embers of a fire spell, enough to heat the water without boiling it or setting an outright flame to the dresser top.

“Now _that_ is true talent.” Karl grinned. He dampened his hands in the bowl, then scrubbed his hands with soap and held them over the basin for Dorian to rinse with the freshly-heated pitcher.

Karl took a cloth from the pile, dipped it in the pitcher’s fresh water, and wrung it out.

Dorian looked about the room. Rather austere, with only the small vanity, sturdy Fereldan bed, and tiny writing table with straight-backed chair. Yet it was spotlessly clean and tidy, with not so much as a shirt, handkerchief, or scrap of paper dropped anywhere. He eyed the plain brown desk; it didn’t even have a drawer, just four legs and a flat top. At least it appeared sturdy.

“Rather tidy, your brother.”

“Yeah,” his affection was clear, “He’s always been like that.”

Dorian startled when the warm, wet cloth touched his cheek. He turned his gaze back to his lover, who gently washed his face, lips curved up in a small, contented smile.

So, he was the domestic sort.

Karl took extra care around his lips, moustache, and brow, then offered him a towel to clean and dry himself. The cold floor under Dorian’s feet reminded him that he was still naked in a decrepit stone castle. He shivered and reached for his clothes.

“Uh un,” Karl took his hand and led him back toward the bed. “Together under the covers is a much more efficient way to keep warm when you have a talented rogue at your disposal.”

Tempting. But . . . They’d had their fun and reality awaited. Dorian planted his feet, pulling them both to a stop.

“Karl, we’ve enjoyed ourselves, but don’t you have duties to attend to, now that we’re done?” He pursed his lips and tried to look out the window, but the curtain was closed.

The silence stretched for a minute, but Karl’s warm hold of his hand did not relent.

“Dorian, look at me.” His voice was so tender, Dorian had to comply. “This is only the beginning. Our beginning. We’ve a lifetime, if that’s what you want.”

“But I know the end too well.”

Karl shook his head. “Not our end, Dorian. Not ours.”

He was too tired and needy to resist that declaration today, and let himself be led back into bed, nestled under the covers in his lover’s arms.

Karl reached over him to run an index finger along the mouth of the empty oil bottle. Dorian’s breath caught when Karl gently ran his finger along Dorian’s drying moustache, twirling the ends just so.

“There,” Karl whispered. “Perfect.”

Dorian didn’t know what to do with the new, expansive emotion filling his chest. It had nothing to do with the scents of home so tenderly placed over his upper lip, and everything to do with the man who had bought the oil.

“Perhaps we should move. Isn’t this your brother’s room?”

“He won’t be back tonight.” Karl snuggled closer with a delighted hum.

“But surely—”

“He’ll crash in my room, probably. Too much to hope for him shacking up in Lace’s tent. He really is too slow.”

“Hmm, really?” Dorian rubbed a hand along Karl’s warm shoulder. “I thought he’d take the initiative before now. They flirt constantly, and she is rather pretty.”

Karl looked up with an exaggerated pout. “Hey, I’m pretty, too.”

“Yes, Amatus, you are,” Dorian kissed his forehead and drew him tighter into his arms.

Karl rubbed his thumb up and down along Dorian’s back. The movement sent pleasant warm ripples up his spine.

“They’ll sort it out,” Karl said. “She’ll drag him to bed if he doesn’t make a move soon. He’s just got to be an overconsiderate dick for a while first. Always full of worry and doubt. Like you.”

“Me?” He wasn’t sure which part applied—the considerate one, the dick, or the worrier.

“You’ve fooled everyone but me, Dorian. You’re not overconfident; just the opposite: You’ve more skill than you let on. You’re the best-read man I’ve ever heard of.”

Karl reached up, brushed his thumb over Dorian’s cheek. “And you worry too much, Dorian. I wish I could lighten the burdens your heart carries.”

“I’m also devilishly charming,” Dorian choked out. “You forgot that.”

“I will never forget anything about you, Dorian. I love all of you.”

Speechless, Dorian held Karl close. He had not been in the habit before. None of his lovers had shared his desire to cuddle.

“Would you . . .” Karl said. He’d thought him asleep. “Would you . . . ?”

“Yes, Amatus?”

“Would you like to share a room, with me?” Karl held his breath, warm chest motionless in Dorian’s embrace.

Move into the Inquisitor’s private chambers? That was a worse scandal than sleeping with him, but Dorian was too tired and needy to resist that offer today.

Countrymen be damned, he was too weak to resist Karl ever.

“Of course, Amatus. We shall see to it in the morning.”

Karl drifted off to sleep in Dorian’s arms. Eventually, Dorian followed.


	23. Someone Special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [Tessa1972](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessa1972/gifts), [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works), and [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata/works). Thank you to [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works) for encouraging me to finish and post!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Content includes Tranquility mention. Leo and Lace kiss!

Leo sat in Skyhold’s gazebo, trying to catch five minutes of quiet for himself before going in search of dinner.

The sudden outbreak of two low, heated voices in the middle of the garden made him want to smack his head against the wall. A few minutes unconscious would be preferable to intervening in yet another squabble. When Karl—the Herald—was around, everyone tried to please him, but as soon as his back was turned, it seemed like everyone bickered about each other.

Just this morning, Leo and Lace had broken up fisticuffs between a human and a dwarf in front of Belle’s stall: “I’m glad to be working with you, instead of one of those elves,” the human had said, and it all went downhill from there. Turns out the dwarf’s spouse was an elf.

The voices he heard now were the Inquisitor and the Commander. He’d best intervene before Cassandra got wind of it and stormed in.

“They need oversight!”

“Leave Connor alone, Cullen,” Karl growled. “This is your final warning.” He stormed off for the main hall.

Cullen sighed, one hand on his hip, and ran the other through his hair as he stared at the ground. Then he straightened and strode off for the chapel, the only room in Skyhold Karl refused to enter; Karl hadn’t willingly entered a chapel since the day they’d heard that Lance had been made Tranquil.

Leo followed the Commander.

Cullen lit three candles in silence and stared up at the faceless statue of Andraste. He made no movement or comment when Leo came to his side and lit one candle for Lace.

_Blessed Andraste, please watch over her._

Leo let the quiet sit a minute, staring up at the statue.

“You’re lucky he didn’t tear your face off,” Leo said casually.

Cullen went ashen and rubbed the back of his neck. “Is he in the habit of, uh, tearing off faces?”

“No. Just a figure of speech, Commander.”

Leo gestured toward the toppled pew in the corner, “Shall we?”

“Yes, of course, my lord,” Cullen hastened to help Leo set the pew upright, and sat, back straight, chin high, as if bracing for a blow.

Leo repressed a sigh and ignored his rumbling stomach; he could eat later. Everything would fall apart without a working relationship amongst Inquisition leadership. With the Chantry in shambles, the common folk looked to the Inquisition for stability.

They’d lost Haven. Gained Skyhold. Yet the fortress would be just as fragile as the village if leadership was divided.

“Look, Cullen, there’s no good way around this: Every time he sees you, Karl doesn’t see _you_ ; he sees a pale, freckled redhead who was the sweetest, most peaceful boy in Thedas. Stolen from him.”

Cullen’s shoulders slumped. “A mage.”

“Yes. Sent by his parents to Kirkwall, even though he was a grown man, secure in his position at the Ostwick Circle.”

Leo didn’t share the whole truth: that it was his own mother who had bullied them into making the transfer. It hurt too much to talk with anyone other than Karl about it, and it wasn’t Cullen’s business anyway.

Cullen swallowed and met Leo’s steady stare. “His name?” It was practically a whisper.

“Lance.” Funny, how bland his voice echoed in his own ears, unworthy of the vibrant man they had known in childhood.

Cullen’s face went from ashen to white. “Not a common name in Kirkwall. And there was only one in the Gall—in the Circle. I was there. When he was made . . . Tranquil.”

“So unable to defend himself when the riots started,” Leo couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. “Karl considers Tranquility a fate worse than death.”

Cullen’s cheeks flushed.

“He’s gone, Cullen. All we can do now is try to save as many as we can. Whatever their abilities or affiliations.”

Leo rose from his seat and Cullen followed.

“If you’ve concerns about mage safety and security, please run them by me and I’ll help you talk to my brother about them. He’s a reasonable man, but his passions run just as deep as your own.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Leo didn’t want Cullen’s gratitude. He wanted five minutes of peace and hot food to chase away the chilly damp that saturated his bones. He should ask Josephine if the stonemason could put a fireplace in the chapel. He wandered out of the dark little room.

He didn’t know where he was going or why when a firm hand caught his.

“Hey,” Lace said. “Mind the step, Leo.”

He blinked through stinging, salty tears to find her at his side, smiling up at him. “There’s a step, here, luv.” Hands at his elbow and back, she guided him up into the private shade of the gazebo and sat with him on the bench.

“When did you last eat?” she asked, handing him a handkerchief.

“I don’t know,” he sniffed, wiping his face, trying to remember why he was crying. Everything was a gray slate of meaningless hurt. “A while.”

“Cole, would you please bring us some stew?”

He hadn’t known the spirit was there. Before he could look up, there was a whisper of black smoke and they were alone.

She wrapped her arms around Leo’s waist and snuggled closer under his arm, resting her cheek to his shuddering chest.

Warm. Loving. There.

He squeezed her tight, bent over to kiss the top of her head, loose copper-gold strands from her braided hair tickling his lips. She smelled of sunshine and green hilltops, even up here in the cold mountains. He breathed deep, settling in her peaceful company.

“Did you mean it, when you called me luv?”

“Yes, Leo, I meant it. Did you mean it when you kissed me just now?”

“Yes, Lace, I meant it.” He soothed a hand up and down her arm. “What does this mean?”

She looked up, her deep green eyes as kind as her embrace. She placed a cool gloved hand against his hot cheek. “It can mean whatever you want. I’m here for you.”

Fresh hope pounded in his heart.

“Is there anyone special waiting for you, Lace?”

“No.” She shook her head, a tiny smile playing at her lips.

“Nor me.”

She brushed a finger down his cheek. “There could be.”

There would never be another moment like this one. He had to brave it now.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

She smiled fully, eased her hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him into a meeting of lips. Her mouth was soft skin over firm muscle, a dip into berries and ferns. Freedom. He closed his eyes, pulled her tighter against his side.

She flicked her tongue over his lips and he opened in invitation, groaning as she ran her gloved hand up over his clean-shaven scalp—

“I want to help.”

Leo jerked back, blinking at the dwindling black smoke around Cole, who knelt before them, offering two plain brown mugs of steaming stew. An ornate silver spoon sat upright in each.

Lace chuckled and leaned forward to accept the mugs. “Thank you, Cole. Why don’t you go see what Varric’s up to.”

Cole jumped up and headed for the keep with a gangly trot.

“Here,” Lace handed Leo a mug of stew. “Eat up.”

“Thanks.” The first bite burnt his tongue, but he didn’t care. Just a taste, and he was feeling better, clearer. “This was a brilliant idea.”

“Yeah,” she said vaguely, stirring her cup. “Leo?”

“Yes?”

“Do you not want people to see us together?”

Panic gripped his stomach. “What?! Yes! I mean no! I mean, why wouldn’t I want the whole world to know I care for you?”

She raised an eyebrow and gestured toward the space between them. When Cole had appeared, Leo had slid down the bench, leaving enough space there for another person.

“Oh,” he sighed in relief and scooted half-way back toward her. “That wasn’t about you, Lace. Cole startled me; that’s all.”

Her lips twitched in a half-smile. “So, it’d be okay if I did this?” She slid the rest of the way over, bumping their hips together.

His throat constricted. “Yeah. I like that a lot.”

She giggled and leaned against him, poking him with her elbow when she raised her mug to spoon up another bite.

He wrapped his arm around her again, awkwardly trying to eat his own stew, dribbling sauce down on them both.

“Leo!” she laughed loud enough for the bright sound to echo around the entire garden. She pulled a fresh handkerchief out of her pocket. “This is my last clean one.”

“It won’t be enough.”

It was messy, and took twice as long, to eat their stew while wrapped around each other, but it was ten times as much fun, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last laughed like that.

When they finished, she got up on her knees next to him, her warm pink lips a mere breath away.

“I’ll take these to the kitchens,” she gently extracted his mug from his grip. “You can go see what new plans your brother has for saving the world.”

“Okay.” He focused on her mouth, but not her words. “What did you say?”

A sly smile eased her lips upward. “You missed a spot.”

“I—”

She flicked her tongue out across his lips and he swept her tight into his arms to kiss her properly, uncaring for how her elbows dug into him at odd angles to keep their mugs upright.

“I think you got it that time,” she panted, fair face flushed bright pink beneath her lovely carpet of copper freckles.

Heart hammering deafening rhythm, he feathered a gentle kiss across her lips and helped her to her feet. “When will I see you again?”

“I don’t leave until dawn.”

His chest seized up. Of course she had to go out in the field again. How had he forgotten? When she was in his arms, it felt like they had forever.

“I’ll find you in the Ambassador’s office after you meet with Karl.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Go.”

He hesitated and she smiled again.

“I won’t leave without saying goodbye. I promise.”

He hurried to the war room. The sooner they finished this war council, the sooner he could see Lace again.

-

Karl leaned over the map on the war table, glaring at the Frostbacks, as if his dirty look alone could reveal where Corypheus was hiding. He’d had his temper under control, until he’d found Cullen interrogating Enchanter Connor in the garden.

Of the three of them, only Connor had appeared unfazed.

Guerrin was one of their most capable, stable allies. He’d performed admirably at Haven. If not for Karl’s Marked hand, and the Elder One’s obsession with him, Connor would have been a better choice to fight Corypheus.

The war room door opened and closed softly, followed by a set of booted footsteps as stealthy and familiar as his own.

Leo.

Suddenly their mission didn’t seem insurmountable.

“You’re late,” Karl said, “but as everyone else is later, it doesn’t really matter.” He looked up.

“Leo, why do you have gravy all over your jacket?” His pants, too.

“Spilled my dinner.”

Karl smirked. “I can see that. Fine, you’re entitled to one or two secrets.”

The door opened more brusquely and Cullen came in, his arms full of papers. “Inquisitor, I have the information you requested.” He set the papers on his corner of the table and took a step back, spine straight, hands fidgeting until he gripped the pommel of his sword to keep them still. Nervousness was preferable to anger after their argument in the garden.

“Thank you, Commander.”

Cullen stood up even taller. How did he _do_ that? Karl’s spine would break.

Josephine and Leliana entered next, deep in whispers.

“First, the easy requests,” Karl jumped right in, eager to get this over with and get back to his room, where Dorian waited for him. “Leliana, Sutherland and company need new gear.”

She stood at-ease, hands clasped behind her back. “It shall be done.”

He could always count on Leliana to be swift.

“Thank you. Josephine, I’ve got three more wedding invitations,” he waved them in the air. “Can you send them a clock or piece of silk or something? I don’t want to anger our allies, but they don’t seem to understand that if the Herald is dozing at their daughter’s nuptials, he’s not out there closing rifts and finding the cult that murdered the Divine.”

Demon-spewing rifts he could handle. Sitting through Chantry rites, not so much, especially when they got around to the canticles about how magic is meant to serve man and not rule over him. Karl was grateful none of his advisors had asked him why he was never seen in the chapel. He was _the Herald of Andraste_ , for fuck’s sake.

His mother had actually sent him a letter saying she was _proud_ of him. He’d torn it up and thrown it in Varric’s blazing fireplace.

Josephine perused the invitations. “I know just the thing for each of these nobles, my lord. Do not give them another thought.”

“Brilliant. Thank you.”

The rest of the meeting was swift. The sun had set, leaving the windows black. Everyone wanted to be done for the night.

Cullen left first. Leliana helped Josephine gather up her papers, chatting away more cheerfully than Karl had ever seen her. He’d not realized the stern Spymaster had a brighter side.

He looked down at the table with a sigh. There were random pewter markers and scraps of discarded notes scattered across the map.

“You go ahead,” Leo said. “I’ll tidy up.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Go, you two need every moment.”

He didn’t need to say Dorian’s name. Leo was the only one Karl never had to explain Dorian to; the only one who didn’t pester him with questions; the only one who accepted him without reservation.

When Karl had woken in that dank Chantry dungeon, Leo was the only reason he hadn’t told Cassandra to chop off his hand and dive head-first into the Void.

Now, Dorian was the reason he kept trying every day, playing _The Herald_.

Leo was the reason he actually succeeded.

“Thank you.”

Leo hummed an affirmative sound as he tidied the table.

Karl made for his chambers as quickly as he could without running.


	24. Shared Bath, Shared Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [Tessa1972](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessa1972/gifts), [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works), and [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata/works). Thank you to [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works) for encouraging me to finish and post! Thank you to [geekyblackchic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyblackchic/works) for [this lovely drawing](https://dafan7711.tumblr.com/post/165482747356/geekyblackchic-a-gift-for-my-lovely-friend) of Leo and Lace!
> 
> NSFW. Dorian and Karl continue to enjoy each other. Lace and Leo get together.
> 
> Brief, one-line mention of the abuse Karl experienced as a child (note: claustrophobia).

Karl found Dorian warming himself in front of the fire, novel in hand. He’d dragged the settee in front of the hearth and wore only a pair of breeches. Even reclining, his bare chest was perfectly sculpted, like living bronze marble. His bare, wiggling toes were more refined than any part of Karl had ever been.

And yet he was the one who constantly had to reassure Dorian.

“Good, you’re finally here,” Dorian set the book down gingerly. “I can stop trying to read this drivel.”

“Tethras?” Karl laughed.

“ _The Tale of the Champion_ was a fine distraction, but I cannot understand why Cassandra is all aswoon for _Swords and Shields_. What does the Guard Captain even see in that man? I hope the real Guard Captain of Kirkwall has higher standards for herself.”

“How do you know it’s based on the real woman?”

Dorian glided over behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist, hot breath against his ear. “We hear plenty of accurate gossip up north, too, Amatus.”

“I like it when you call me that.”

He’d looked it up in one of Josephine’s many reference books when they’d returned from the Fallow Mire. He had sat in her armchair for a full five minutes afterward, stunned by the deep connection the endearment assumed. It was no “mon chère,” _my dear_ , casually dropped by an Orlesian; it was as if Karl had part of Dorian’s soul. And Dorian had let the term slip their last night in Haven. Way back then, he’d already felt this.

“I like calling you . . .” Dorian slid his elegant fingers lower, cupped Karl’s cock tightly through his trousers, making him gasp and throw his head back on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian slowly ran his tongue up the side of Karl’s earlobe. “ . . . Amatus.”

Karl released a guttural groan. He reached back to clutch Dorian’s sleek hips, arched up into his hands. “I,” he gasped out, “came up for some quality time with you, Dorian.”

“We’re having quality time, I promise.” He pressed his thumb forward over the end of Karl’s throbbing cock, rubbing against the coarse fabric of his pants. Karl found himself on his toes, thrusting his hips forward.

Dorian squeezed again. “For you, only the best.”

Karl whimpered. “Hold me.”

Dorian rubbed his palms up and down. “Yes, Amatus. I want that, too.”

He turned him in his arms, helped him out of his clothes, hanging the jacket and pants up when Karl dropped them in his clumsy haste. Dorian removed his own breeches with much more grace.

Dorian eased him down onto the soft white sheets of the bed, pulled their latest bottle of Tevinter oil from the bedside table. How many bottles had he purchased for Dorian? A dozen? A hundred? It would never be enough.

Eyes gold in the firelight, Dorian leaned down on his elbows, hovering with his lips just out of reach.

Karl clutched at Dorian’s shoulders. At the sound of the cork popping from the bottle, Karl let one of his hands drop down, open for Dorian to dribble oil in his palm.

While Dorian oiled Karl’s stomach, Karl oiled Dorian’s, mimicking his precise, rhythmic motions. It was fascinating, arousing, to watch his own hand touch Dorian in almost the same way Dorian touched him. A little nudge here at his hip, a suggestive flick there across his nipple, had them working each other up even further.

When Dorians slid his hand down over Karl’s cock, Karl dragged him down into a kiss, oil-slicked fingers slipping along the back of his neck. Tongues and teeth between each gasping breath. Karl nipped at Dorian’s moustache, licked across it, giddy with how the motion made Dorian lustily groan his name.

Dorian ran his oiled fingers from Karl’s cock down and into his ass, shooting white-hot stars across his vision.

“Yes! Dorian! Yes!”

Dorian lifted one of Karl’s knees over his elbow, pulled his fingers out, and thrust himself in.

Heat boiled near Karl’s breaking point. His free cock jumped between them with each thrust; weeping, ready.

He thrust his thumb in Dorian’s ass.

Dorian came with a silent shout, head thrown back in surprise, throat arched toward the ceiling, body stiffened while his hot seed rushed forth.

Chest heaving, Karl thumped his head back against the pillow, a satisfied grin on his face. There was nothing more gorgeous than Dorian with his neck arched up like that.

Dorian looked down, panting, eyes narrowed with a determination that made Karl laugh—until Dorian took Karl’s twitching cock in a flurried grasp.

“ _Dorian!_ ” Karl shouted his name as he came, covering them both.

“That’s better,” Dorian hummed in approval, rubbing the tender tip of Karl’s cock with a thumb while he bent down to lick his length clean.

All Karl could do was breathe, hands limp at his sides, while the uncontrollable palpitations of his heart slowly subsided.

With a contented sigh, Dorian crawled up to rest his forehead against Karl’s cheek. “Quality time, you say.”

“The best.” Karl wrapped his arms around him, placed an absentminded kiss to his nose. “The absolute best.”

“Hmm,” Dorian massaged a hand up Karl’s sternum. “Especially if you have a talented mage at your disposal.”

Karl chuckled. “Is that a hint that we need to clean up with warm water?”

Karl would happily fall asleep as they were, but Dorian wouldn’t be comfortable. Dorian didn’t flinch at dirt, blood, or whatever unpleasant task needed to be done to catch Corypheus—and they’d had fun getting “dirty” together in this bed plenty of times before—but he certainly had standards about what came after.

“Hint? My dear Inquisitor, I do not _hint_. I am _telling_ you it’s time for a bath.”

He pushed Karl toward the edge of the bed, guided him to the large copper tub that sat in front of the glass doors to the balcony. Black night and white stars were all that could be seen on the other side.

Dorian shivered. “Clean, but cold. This will take a moment longer than a pitcher.” He hovered his hands over the water, head tilted as if listening. A minute later, steam rose from the water. “Ah, perfect. In you go.”

“Only if you join me.”

“Of course.”

They sat at opposite “ends” of the little tub, legs tangled and knees up above the water’s surface as they passed the soap back and forth, a scented bar Dorian had acquired from an Ostwick merchant visiting Belle. Sharing a happy silence.

“Would you prefer a different scent?” Dorian asked.

Karl blinked, confused by Dorian’s sudden, serious frown. “What?”

“When I purchased the soap, I didn’t know how you felt about . . . home.”

They’d stayed up late the night before, talking in front of the fire. No sex, just talking. Dorian had held his hand tight when he told him about his nights sleeping in a locked closet. He’d laid his head on Dorian’s shoulder while Dorian told him about how the Magister had arranged his kidnapping.

It was sweet of Dorian to worry, but it didn’t bother Karl at all. His parents were safely across the sea, and Josephine was handling all their letters so he didn’t have to.

Karl smiled, “No, it reminds me of you now.”

“Oh.” He looked down at the water a moment, composing himself. “Well, good.

“Just a moment.” Dorian rose from the tub, dripping across the floor as he went to retrieve a wash cloth.

“Allow me.” He sat on the floor by the tub, arm over the edge as he carefully washed Karl’s face, softly tracing his cheekbones with a gentle finger.

“There,” he whispered. “Perfect.”

Karl took the cloth, raised Dorian’s hand to kiss his knuckles. “Perfect.”

Dorian stared at him a moment before rising abruptly. “The water is getting tepid, Amatus. Best we go to bed now.”

That was fine. Maybe if he held him long enough, told him for the rest of their lives, Dorian would believe he loved him—accepted him—exactly as he was.

Karl stripped the bed and tossed the sheets in the hamper while Dorian fetched a fresh set from the closet. When they settled into bed, Karl pulled an extra quilt up over them both and drew Dorian into his arms.

Dorian nuzzled closer. “How Varric writes the young stablehand, however; _he_ is superbly written. Very sexy and realistic. Makes me wonder if Master Tethras has someone waiting back home.”

“Ugh,” Karl said. “I don’t want to think about Varric’s sex life while I’m cuddling with you. I don’t want to think about Varric’s sex life _ever_.”

Dorian chuckled, placed a lingering kiss to his shoulder. “As you wish, Amatus.”

-

Lace chatted with Dagna in front of Josephine’s fire. She’d learned more about fade-touched honeycomb in the last half-hour than she’d ever imagined possible. And Dagna had promised to install new runes in Lace’s weapons.

“I’m meeting Connor at the pub,” Dagna bubbled cheerily. “Care to join us?”

“Maybe next time.” Lace accepted Dagna’s exuberant hug farewell.

It was nice to have a few moments alone by the fire. She could drift in memories of Leo’s kisses.

He would come out of that war room door soon, looking for her. Anticipation tingled across her skin. Would he be interested in more than a kiss? She was rougher than a human lady, and shorter, but he hadn’t seemed to mind in the gazebo. “Stubby,” some human men had called her. She didn’t care about _them_. She didn’t want a tumble with them.

The door opened and Cullen walked by without a glance. Right after, Leliana followed Josephine to her desk, speculating about what Empress Celene would wear to her cousin’s fete.

Josephine put a stack of papers in her drawer, locked it with a key from her pocket, and blew out the candles. She winked at Lace on her way by the fire and Lace grinned back.

Karl rushed past a second later, oblivious to everything except where he was headed. To Dorian, probably.

Was Leo alone in there now? Should she go in?

Soft footsteps approached.

Leo.

His steps were always a bit more measured than his brother’s—formal and precise.

Leo sat on the stone floor in front of her armchair, his weathered brown skin bathed in warm orange firelight. With his back to the light, she couldn’t see his face very well. But she could hear his breathing.

Strong. Passionate. Like him.

He rested his head in her lap and she resisted the urge to jump him then and there. She ran her bare hand along his scalp, marveling at the short wiry stubble.

“Is your hair curly? If you’d let it grow instead of shave; is it curly?”

He chuckled, sending delightful vibrations from his cheek up her leg and torso.

“Yes, curly, wild and coarse. Or, at least I assume it would be. I haven’t had more than a few day’s stubble on my scalp since I was six. Mom says nobles must be polished. Proper.”

What kind of mother told her child their natural body was wrong? Lace couldn’t imagine her own parents wanting her to be any different.

“I bet it’s beautiful.”

He looked up, rose to his knees, leaning his elbows on either side of her hips.

“You’re beautiful.” He bent forward for a tender taste of her lips, a light press that made her hungry for more. “I might grow it out, just so you can see it.” He slid his hands along her hips to cradle her back. “Feel it,” he whispered against her lips.

“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” she whispered back, tracing his upper teeth with her tongue, teasing his upper lip, reveling in the way he trembled against her.

He buried his face in her neck, shuddered out a deep breath. “How about you?” He leaned back, searching her eyes. They were so close, she could have seen his face even if the fire had gone out. “Are you comfortable?” He squeezed her butt and she slid forward with a smile, wrapped her legs tight around his middle.

“Oh, yes, but I think we’d be more comfortable in a bed. A nice, big Fereldan bed with fluffy pillows.”

His breathless laugh was all the confirmation she needed.

“You like fluffy pillows?”

“Well, yeah,” she poked him in the ribs. “Bedrolls are fine while on the road, but even a scout has some standards when in civilization.”

“ _Lead_ Scout,” he said.

“I am.”

“Well, then, _Lead_ Scout,” he swept her up and strode toward the door. “Lead the way.”

“Leo!” she gasped in shock, pushing at his shoulders. No one had carried her since she was a babe on her way to her first wool market. Legs wrapped around him, this rocking motion ignited a fire in her belly that made her brain want to turn off. “I can walk. You don’t have to—”

He stopped. “Of course you can walk. But you don’t have to. Would you rather walk?”

“Um,” she bit her lip, gathering the courage to speak the truth. “Not really. I like”—he squeezed her butt again and she squeaked—“ _like_ this.”

“That’s all that matters.” He swept his tongue into her mouth, bolder than before, broad hands massaging her ass until hot need pooled between her legs.

It took ages to get up the garden steps to his balcony bedroom. His hands never stopped their heated stroking, but he frequently paused to lean her against a cool stone wall for more kisses. For a full minute on the top step he nibbled her neck, the moon shining silver off the Inquisition sigils on his jacket.

“Leo, please. If I don’t get out of this breast band soon, I’m going to explode.”

He laughed, the clear, happy sound ringing out across the night-filled courtyard. Everyone on the mountain could probably hear.

Leo held her tight to his chest and _ran_ the rest of the way down the balcony to his room, slamming the door behind him with his foot.

He sat on the bed with her in his lap, offering more heated kisses as they unbuttoned each other’s coats and scrambled out of their clothes.

“What do you need?” he asked, tossing her breast band on his desk chair. “What do you want?” He kneaded her naked butt in tantalizing fashion as she knelt over his thigh.

She got a heady thrill from him just asking, as if it was the most natural, happy thing for a man to do.

“Touch me here.” Her breasts fit perfectly in his hot hands.

He rolled her nipples between his rough fingertips, squeezing a little bit harder with each press of his thumbs, watching her face with rapt attention as she trembled with molten joy.

He squeezed harder and she gasped with pleasure, throwing her head back for more air as her pussy clenched and unclenched, swollen and aching to be filled. His hands were on her breasts, but she could feel him everywhere.

Still working one of her nipples, he traced his other index finger over her chest, down her sternum and stomach. Her skin tingled along the path, even as he moved on. His dual touch made it difficult to form coherent thought, to touch him in kind. Her own hands were lead weights at her sides as the rest of her body sang under his ministrations.

He brushed his finger back and forth along her lower abdomen, just above the curly hair between her legs, but no further. The teasing touch sent shivers up her belly to where he played more roughly with her wonderfully tender nipple.

With a twist of his fingers, he stretched her nipple out and bent down to flick his moist tongue over it, sending lightning down into her core.

“Leo!” Suddenly awake, she reached down to stroke his erect cock. “I think it’s time we get a little _closer_.”

“I’ve a sheepskin sheath,” he said, licking her tit again and resuming his rhythmic pinching. His voice got lower, rougher, with the movement of her hand along his length. She ran her thumb over his head and he hissed out through his teeth. “But I can pleasure you in other ways”—his finger delved down through her curls, teasingly close to her clit before moving away again—“if you prefer.”

“If you want,” she panted, “but I’ve been taking my herbs every day since I saw you ride up on the Storm Coast.”

His answering chuckle was just as breathy. “You like seeing me in the saddle, huh?”

“Maker, yes. But I’ve been hoping to be the rider.”

“I’d like that.” His appreciative grin made her pussy clench again.

All the breath whooshed from her lungs as he stood, easily carrying her with one arm under her bottom and her arms around his neck. He retrieved the sheath from the bedside table and settled them back against the headboard, surrounded by fat, fluffy white pillows.

None of her fantasies had ever come close to this.

She knelt between his knees and gave him her most seductive smile. “Ever been with a dwarf before?”

Some humans had odd ideas about dwarven anatomy and bedroom customs. Leo was smarter than that, but it was always good to ask about expectations, especially your first time together.

She hoped there would be a second and a third time. Maybe even a second and a third time tonight.

“Yes,” his smile was sweet as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Does that bother you?”

She was surprisingly irritated by that answer, and had to rein in the violent urge to ask him who he’d been with before.

“Well, no, just as long as I’m the only dwarf you’re with right now.”

“Lace, you’re the only _one_ for me. There will be no other lover.”

“Well, I—”

He kissed her, long and slow, until she completely forgot what she was going to say.

He gently framed her face with his hands, “Did you have something else to say?”

“Kiss me again.”

He grinned, “Yes, Ser.”

His groans melded with hers. He knew just where to press, just where to kiss, exactly how to set her skin aflame with desire.

And everywhere her hands and mouth roamed, he came alive, too. She learned the spot on his hip he liked rubbed, how he stretched his neck for her to nibble his collarbone, the way their fingers meshed together perfectly while they shared wave after wave of ecstasy.

-

They woke together with the dawn to make slow love, Lace’s flowing hair and warm curves an intoxicating comfort that left no room in Leo for thought of anything else.

Later, wrapped around each other under the thick quilt, they talked about his horses and her work for Dennett, until she poked him in the ribs and cheerily insisted it was time she reported to the Spymaster.

“You may be a Trevelyan, Leo, but I need to be on time.”

One more lingering kiss and she deftly slipped out of his arms and scampered over to the washbowl. They took swift turns with the tepid water and helped each other dress.

He handed her the knife for her boot, searching for any excuse to remain in her company just a few minutes more.

“Lace, will you go to the ball with me?”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Only if I’m hiding in the shadows, my lord.”

“I’m serious.”

She considered him for a moment, a half-smile on her lips, then jumped up on his desk chair and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“I want to dance with you,” he said, lost in her green eyes.

She leaned forward and gently tasted his lips. So soft, so strong.

He wrapped his arms tight around her waist, stepping closer so there was no space between them.

“I’m sending the Nightingale with you,” she said.

“I wasn’t aware anyone ‘sent’ Leliana anywhere,” he buried his face in her neck. Today her hair smelled of fresh mountain air and his Ostwick soaps. It made him never want to let her go. They could just hold each other in this room until the end of time.

“She invited me to take the mission,” Lace leaned back, a guarded expression on her face, but she didn’t let go of him. “I said no.”

His heart sighed with disappointment, but he understood. Leo massaged his thumb over her cheek, smooth despite her life out scouting the wilderness.

She had her duties and he had his. He had asked too much of her, only thinking about how it would make _him_ feel to hold her again. The Empress’ ballroom was a waste of Lace’s talents, when Karl needed her eyes and ears elsewhere.

“Who better to watch my back at the Winter Palace than the Nightingale of the Orlesian court?” he said, forcing and smile.

She shook her head, clearly not fooled by his off-handedness, and buried her face against his chest. “When we get back, I’ll let you commission for me the most ostentatious dress the world has ever seen and we can cut a rug down the center of the great hall, shocking everyone in Skyhold.”

“I’ll come back,” he said.

She did not move from his embrace. “Me, too.”

It was a hope, not a promise. Neither could promise another moment, much less a lifetime. But if anyone could survive out there, it was Lace, and he had no intention of having her return to find him gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herbal mixtures for birth control are fairly common in fan fic and period novels. I also think Thedas could have “sheepskin sheaths” similar to the sheep gut and chemical-soaked linen condoms used in Regency-era England, where women also used vinegar and sponges.
> 
> Back in chapter 15, Ava mentioned an Arcanist who is Connor’s best friend. Wondering how that came to be? My shorter, nine-chapter story [Connor Guerrin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4683272) details Dagna and Connor’s first meeting in Origins and shows the events of Inquisition from Connor’s POV, with a different Inquisitor. 14,890 words, rated Teen.


	25. The Lady of Ostwick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [geekyblackchic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyblackchic/works), [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works), and SnuggleBonnet. Thank you to [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works) for encouraging me to finish and post!
> 
> Note: Content includes verbal abuse and death threats.

On his way to the tavern for lunch, Karl ran into Sutherland in the throne room and stopped him to ask after his crew; Sutherland, Voth, Shayd, and Rat were all welcome regulars at the Herald’s Rest when they were between Leliana’s precise-strike missions.

As usual, Karl wasn’t two minutes into a good conversation before he was interrupted.

“Inquisitor, Inquisitor!” a messenger ran up, breathing heavily. Karl held a finger up for him to wait and the messenger practically hopped from foot to foot, his lips pinched and hands clasped together in near-panic.

“You’ve done well, Sutherland,” Karl gladly shook the man’s hand. “Keep up the good work.”

“Thank you, Ser.” The young man headed for the Spymaster’s loft with a spring in his step.

Karl turned to the messenger. “Thank you for waiting. What is it?”

“Inquisitor,” the shaking messenger said, “the Lady—”

“This ‘ _castle_ ’ is frightfully drafty,” a haughty female voice echoed along the stone corridor. “Will the servants have my rooms warm for me?”

Karl cringed almost as badly as the messenger. _That_. Was his mother.

He took pity on the anguished messenger and waved him off. The agent ran as though all the demon-possessed wolves of Wolf Hollow were on his heels.

“I am glad the younger one has finally stepped up to his responsibilities. His disobedience was beyond even my eldest’s incredible ability to tame. Before now, I have always had to introduce my children as the dutiful son and the disappointment. I trust you find them satisfactory in their duties, Ambassador Montilyet.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, my lady. Both have been stalwart leaders, a great hope for the people.”

His mother harrumphed, then went on talking at her usual brisk pace. She rarely paused for others to speak, and even more rarely listened during those pauses. Unless it was a priest talking about the evils of magic. Then she listened with ravenous glee, memorizing every word to quote later.

“Now, you promised me a meeting with Knight-Captain Rutherford.”

“I’m afraid the Commander is tending to urgent Inquisition business at the moment, my lady. I will arrange a proper introduction for you as soon as possible.”

If he had five-hundred sovereigns, Karl would bet every one of them that Cullen was avoiding his mother just as much as he wanted to.

_She’s here. She’s followed me here._

Darkness closed in on him. He blinked it away, breathing deeply as Dorian had taught him.

He ignored his racing pulse, braced himself, and turned to watch the ladies enter through the rotunda door.

“Mother. Welcome to Skyhold.”

-

Leo wished his father would hurry up with whatever it was he was doing and return to the great hall. It was ridiculous to escort his bored mom around the keep when she already knew her way around.

Navinia Trevelyan gestured toward the judgement seat. “Finally, a throne worthy of one of my children.”

“He bears a grim responsibility, Mom. And we are not royalty.”

“Come, come, now, Leo Cadell Trevelyan.”

He wished she’d leave off with the middle name. He couldn’t remember if she’d ever just called him Leo, like his dad did. She complained that “Leo” was too short a name for a noble.

_You are not a common farmer._

“No one is perfect, and you are no exception to that. No need to be jealous of your brother’s momentary success. He won’t be everyone’s favorite forever.”

She meant her favorite. She never had realized that neither he nor Karl cared whom she labeled as her favorite.

“And what are your plans, my son? In recent years, your contributions to the family coffers have been slim.”

That wasn’t true. Plus, he’d covered all of her transportation and supply costs for the trip to meet with Justinia last summer.

She plowed forward without waiting for a reply.

“I expect you to go with your brother to Orlais. Celene’s cousin is hosting a gala for peace talks. It takes place too close to my own fete for me to go, so you will need to be the Trevelyan representative sent as a neutral witness.”

More likely, she hadn’t been invited, and needed him to use the Inquisition’s influence to get her name dropped at the ball.

“Find a decent Marcher or Fereldan girl there. Orlesian would be my last choice, but from the right family . . .” She pulled a folded bit of parchment from her pocket. “Have the Ambassador arrange introductions to these noble ladies. They all have stellar reputations.”

“And deep pockets,” he muttered, shoving the parchment in his jacket pocket. “Not like we’re not already disgustingly flush.”

“What was that?” she raised her nose higher and pinned him with a steely glare. Clearly, she’d heard.

“I will be on my best behavior at the ball, Mom.”

“If you only had your brother’s spirit. Or his pretty face. You’d be a proper noble then. Too bad he’s too willful. The spare has the strength a Bann needs.

“You were a competent child, Leo Cadell, before you let yourself languish. This is your chance to reclaim your potential. Prove yourself the diplomat.

“The past few years have hurt your father and me a great deal. I do not want to tell him that you have shirked your responsibilities again. Your brother is not capable of fulfilling this duty, even in an inept way.”

Leo bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood.

“Goodbye, darling,” she kissed his cheek with cold lips. “Your father is treating me with a picnic on the battlements.”

He stood alone in front of the seat of judgement for a silent moment before leaving to find his brother.

-

Karl sat at his desk, writing as fast as he could. The stack of unanswered letters Josephine had given him was thicker than Varric’s worst novel.

Fully dressed on the perfectly-made bed, Dorian sat with his back against their headboard, ankles crossed and a disgusted look on his face while he read a book Cassandra had loaned him.

“Amatus, don’t bother with this one.” Dorian tossed it down on the bed and picked up another from the pile on the bedside table.

Karl smiled and signed his name to the latest letter, a thank you to a retired Mother who’d helped some mages escape Redcliffe when Alexius had arrived.

A sharp rap on his door made him look up from his correspondence. Without waiting for an answer, Leo ran up the stone steps into his chamber.

“She made a _list_ ,” he held it aloft, crumpled in his fist. “Of potential brides to corner at Empress Celene’s fete. Ranked in order of wealth.”

Karl smiled and sat back. It was a rare and enjoyable thing to hear Leo rant about Mother.

“Makes sense,” Karl said. “She’s not the only noble to do it. In fact, I think betrothal negotiations usually proceed in that manner. Anyone we know?”

“Loads. Second-cousin Kaitlyn,” Leo uncrumpled the list and read it aloud. “Victoria Gwaren—like King Alistair would give his blessing for a future Teyrna to marry a Marcher—Cecelia . . .” he trailed off. “Fuck.”

“Well, this is interesting,” Dorian said and Leo spun around, startled.

“Maker, Dorian! Sorry, I didn’t know you were here. How are you?”

Dorian’s lips twitched, his gorgeous moustache tilting up sideways with his amusement. For the third time since he’d started answering letters, Karl had the overwhelming urge to kiss him, but Leo was here and upset, so that came first.

“I am well, thank you, Leo, but I do believe you were telling us about your potential alliances with eligible ladies.”

“Ah, yes,” Leo sighed and stuck the paper hurriedly back into his pocket. “It’s nothing new, really. Sorry to have bothered you both.” He headed back for the stairs. “Shall I see you at dinner?”

“Leo,” Karl said. “You didn’t finish reading me the list.” That piece of paper meant something more than rich women. Something that spooked him.

Leo gingerly reached into his pocket and handed the parchment over. “Everyone on this list. I know what else they have in common. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Karl looked down. Each name rang like a funeral bell in his head.

“Amatus?” Dorian sounded concerned. “What is it?”

“Each of these people has turned apostates over to Templars,” Karl said flatly. “Mother gave it to you, knowing you’d show me.”

It was sad, but not exactly shocking.

“I’m sorry,” Leo said, head drooping.

“It’s not your fault, Leo. She is who she is. You’ve been as much her victim as I have.”

“That’s not true! She never did those things to me. I should have—”

“No, you’ve done enough. You are enough. Always have been, always will be.”

The perfection she’d demanded from the first son was just as caustic as the portends of doom she’d laid on her spare. The unkind manipulations were as crushing as an entire weekend alone in a dark closet.

_So, you think magic is_ good _, Karl? I’ll show you where magic belongs: locked up!_

The specter was still there, but it no longer made him quail. Dorian’s presence at his side was a bright light that banished the darkness.

“I . . .” Leo shrugged.

Karl got up and hugged him close. “Go, write Lace a sappy love letter. Or a naughty one. It will make you feel better.”

“Okay,” Leo sighed. He waved on his way out, “I’ll see you later, Dorian.”

“Leo.”

Leo’s exit was more subdued than his entrance.

“Karl,” Dorian wrapped him in his arms. “Had I not already loved you, that show of tenderness would have done it.”

“Yeah?” Karl leaned back into his embrace, warm and steady. “Well, I love you, too, Dorian.”

“Want to talk about it?” He kissed Karl’s cheek. Dorian was very demonstrative when they were in private, and Karl would never grow tired of it.

“I’ve mentioned most of it already. Mother’s preferred weapon is words; they isolate as well as a door, and work even after you’re big enough to fight back. Dad says I’m too sensitive. That I overreact and panic.”

“That is utter nonsense,” Dorian said with elegant outrage and Karl patted his hand.

“Mother thought making an example of me would build Leo up into the proper heir, but it hurts him more than me. My heart rate spikes when she’s around, and I’m sometimes sad, but Leo—Leo is devastated. He was told he could please them, and, whatever his mind knows, his _heart_ says he failed.”

“Hmm,” Dorian placed a soft kiss against his neck. “Anything we can do?”

Karl loved it when Dorian said “we,” like the two of them were one unit, together, for always.

“He’s been happier since I met you.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he turned in his arms and wiggled his eyebrows with an impish smile. “The happier I am, the happier he is.”

“Well, then,” Dorian breathed in his ear. “Shall I make you _very_ happy?”

“Yes. Lock the door and take me to bed.”

“What of your letters?”

“They can wait.”

-

Karl stood in front of his “throne,” staring at the empty stone seat. Behind it, the high, stained glass windows tinted the incoming sunlight red as blood.

Lady Montilyet had told him it was his duty to dictate the fate of others’ lives. Here, in this seat.

He’d insisted everyone take a break to eat lunch first. He loathed leaving the prisoners down in their cells for another hour, but he wanted them to have as fair a trial as he could provide. Hurried, hungry witnesses would make that more difficult.

A damp, chilly breeze blew in the open door. Karl shivered and rubbed the back of his neck.

Along with the wind came raised voices from the healers’ tents. One angry voice, actually, and a desperate murmur of a healer unable to placate someone.

Karl went to investigate.

A fair-skinned elf mage with black hair practically shouted at a handful of soldiers gathered at the front gate. There were deep purple circles under his eyes, and he was overly thin, even for an elf. Perhaps from stress or malnutrition.

“First it was the inescapable Tower. Then ‘sanctuary’ in Redcliffe. Then indentured servitude to a Magister. Then exiled by Ferelden’s king. A dragon at Haven! Now we’ve been dragged up into the mountains to fight who knows what!”

Another elf mage stood a few paces away, wringing his hands, brow furrowed with worry. It was the herbalist who helped Adan. Karl approached him slowly, giving him time to see him.

“Aorath.”

“Y-yes, Inquisitor?”

“What is his name?”

“Laeroth, my lord.”

Karl lay a hand on Aorath’s shoulder, glad that the elf seemed to take comfort in it instead of flinch away. “No one will hurt, him, Aorath, I promise you.”

“Thank you, Karl.”

Karl moved forward slowly, gesturing for the guards to step back.

“Laeroth,” he said gently.

The elf spun around, trembling all over. “You don’t know what it’s like! To be locked up, told you’re a mistake. That your life—your very existence—is a burden to other people.”

Karl’s heart jumped into his throat. Darkness swam around the edges of his vision, threatening to wash over him. He took a slow breath, willing his voice to reach out.

“Laeroth, you’re welcome to any free room or tent here. Or we’d be happy to supply you with a fresh horse and rations to take wherever you wish. If you’re looking to travel with a group, the next company headed for the Hinterlands leaves tomorrow, and a few scouts are headed to the Storm Coast in two days’ time. Flissa can provide you anything you’d like in the kitchens or tavern. No charge.

“You are free: Free to go; free to stay. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Laeroth hugged himself, still shaking, voice growing small. “I—I made—made a mistake.”

“It’s okay, Laeroth. We all make mistakes, and do our best to fix them. No one will punish you for making a mistake.”

Laeroth buried his face in his shoulder and reached out his hand, showing a nasty burn in his palm.

“Would you like the healers to put some ointment on it?” Karl asked.

Laeroth nodded without looking up.

“Would you like Aorath to stay with you?”

He nodded again and Aorath hurried forward, whispering “Thank you” on his way by.

Karl nodded at the guards, who returned to their posts. On his way back to the keep, he found Dorian sitting next to Cole on a little stone wall at the base of the steps.

“I want to help,” Cole said, and disappeared in a puff of black smoke.

“Yes,” Dorian said, standing and searching Karl’s face with apprehension. “Cole insisted I come down here right away. He said you were in trouble.”

“Remembering a past hurt, but I held it together well enough to handle a sensitive matter.”

Dorian nodded knowingly and looked over Karl’s shoulder, to where Laeroth sat on a bench, clutching Aorath’s hand as the healer applied an elfroot salve.

“Tell me, Amatus,” Dorian reached for his hand and led him up to their room.

They settled on the settee in front of the empty fireplace.

“On my sixteenth birthday, Mother told me I would be better off dead.”

Dorian huffed, “Not even my father—”

“What he planned to do was plenty evil, Dorian. Don’t dismiss your hurt just because mine’s different.”

“As you wish.”

Karl sighed. A tinge of sadness remained, but the panic from earlier wasn’t there.

“I’d just seen Lance, and we’d made love.”

Dorian’s fingers tightened around his own. A solid man, giving and free.

“I didn’t tell her we’d become intimate, of course, but she knew from one of her Templar friends that I’d been to the Circle to visit him and our mage friends. At that time, restrictions were looser in Ostwick than elsewhere, and the Trevelyan name got me a lot of privileges.

“She said no closet was strong enough to hold me. No tower was tall enough for him. It would be better—” he hiccupped. “Better for everyone . . . if I just didn’t exist.”

Dorian rubbed a comforting thumb along his hand.

“We shall have Leliana send her and your father away. Today, back to their estate of luxurious despair.”

It was so clear, when Dorian said it. The murk of guilt didn’t stick in his throat at all. “Yes, Dorian, I think that’s best. Thank you.”

“You never have to thank me, Amatus.”

The guilt was gone, but the cold emptiness still crushed him like a giant’s fist. “Will you . . . will you kiss me?”

Dorian’s answering smile was kind and gentle, with just enough of a hungry glint in his eye to let Karl know he found his body alluring, too.

Their lips met softly, easing into each other. Dorian’s sleek moustache curved against Karl’s face in tantalizing fashion, making him groan with want. Rugged want and sleek comfort were inextricably melded, like sharp sands melted into gorgeous glass, or rough steel forged into a smooth blade.

Like life: a mix of coarse and smooth.

The mixed jumble of a lifetime of hurt solidified into one clear idea. Karl held Dorian close and told him.

“I have to kick her out myself. Will you come with me?”

“Of course, Amatus.”

-

Dorian was not about to let Karl march into the viper’s nest alone. Perhaps it was time Bann and Lady Trevelyan faced a fully trained mage from dreaded Tevinter.

When they left their quarters, Karl had his Inquisitor persona firmly in place. A brief word to the runner outside the door had the agent speeding off ahead of them, and by the time they reached the Trevelyans’ guest quarters, a dozen highly-polished Inquisition agents followed them.

Dorian greatly approved. The best way to fight the elite was to show you were shinier.

The Lady’s footman stood ramrod straight outside her door. He practically bounced on his toes as the Inquisitor approached.

“Announce us,” Karl said, more gruff than he usually was with servants.

Her footman knocked twice and opened the door. “Inquisitor Trevelyan and Lord Pavus, my lady and lord.”

Karl strode past him into the middle of the room.

His parents sat at tea at a small table in front of the sunny window. Neither bothered to get up to welcome them.

Did they consider themselves exempt from the rules of courtesy? Did they not wish to even _pretend_ that they respected Karl?

The Bann leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, an impassive look on his face.

The lady gave them a smile sharp enough to make veterans of the Grand Game pause. Dorian had seen that hateful glint in her eye before, from Magisters in Minrathous who would ruin a competitor until they begged for death, then refuse them even that.

“To what do we owe this unexpected visit?” she asked. She did not acknowledge her son’s name or title, sure enough in her own power to ignore the rules the Game typically required.

Karl spoke boldly, with no hint of the vulnerability he’d shown earlier in their private chambers.

“I have come with the personal courtesy to tell you that the Inquisition is returning your gold to you immediately and you are to return to your home at once.”

Bann Trevelyan remained silent, unmoved.

The Lady’s smile became wider, more venomous. She slowly rose to her feet, clutching her cup and saucer close, clearly considering throwing them at his head. Her words, however, were that of a wise advisor to an erring child.

“You need me,” she said, sickeningly sweet.

“No, Mother, I do not. Nor does the Inquisition.”

She set the cup down carefully.

“You are to never again contact me.” Karl did not move. He did not raise his voice. “The Ambassador will have everything settled by nightfall and your money will be back to Ostwick before you are.”

Bann Trevelyan rose from his chair. “No point in staying. Best we pack before he has one of his mages curse us.” He reached for the armoire.

Oh, this was an opportunity Dorian could not let pass.

“Allow me, my lord,” he said with a bright, fake smile. “My dear Lady Mother has just the spell for preparing for a journey.”

With an elaborate flourish of his hands, Dorian willed the wardrobe open, summoned the clothes, toiletries, and other possessions to dance through the air as he conjured a wind spell to make everything whirl about much more than necessary, sending them into the appropriate bags, hat boxes, and trunks.

“Packed with the utmost care, so as not to wrinkle,” Dorian waved a hand to send the lady’s fanciest ball gown into the last trunk, where it slowly drooped itself into elegant folds.

“And scented for freshness. Antivan roses will do, don’t you think?” He had a feeling she disliked the ardent passions of Antiva almost as much as she did mages.

He snapped his fingers, causing a spark of scented dust to appear over the open trunk and cascade down into the lady’s clothes. The lid closed and latched itself.

Unimpressed, Bann Trevelyan sniffed and strode out without another word.

“So, you’ve found another mage to fuck,” Lady Trevelyan eyed Dorian with disdain. “At least the Inquisition has other, competent leaders ready to take over when your hand blows up in your face. _Some_ have not forgotten their duties in mage oversight.”

Dorian wanted to set the bitch’s hair aflame. Or singe her with a lightning bolt; perhaps she had a hidden heart condition it could aggravate. He did not care what she thought of him, or even of mages, but she despised her son.

Karl did not deserve that.

The Inquisitor remained silent. His footmen hefted up all the Trevelyans’ belongings and headed for the stables, leaving Karl and Dorian alone with Lady Navinia Trevelyan of Ostwick.

“You will burn,” she told her son. “The Maker has no place for willful children.”

Her words brought to mind Dorian’s least-favorite painting of Andraste’s execution by fire, which prominently featured the “sword of mercy” the Archon had run through her heart. The painting hung behind the current Archon’s seat in the Magisterium.

The Imperial Chantry claimed Andraste a mage, and not the Maker’s Bride. A view that Lady Trevelyan would certainly dispute. She had not been referring to a martyrs’ death, but the justice of the Southern Chantry.

Karl’s mother swept out of the room, nose held as high as if she were the Queen.

She left behind the scents of cold tea and a rancid perfume composed of flowers Dorian couldn’t identify.

Karl’s tense posture suddenly sagged. Hands trembling, he reached for the bedpost to steady himself.

Dorian wrapped an arm around his waist. “Come, Amatus, let us find a safe space.”

Karl let him lead him out of the room, leaning heavily against his side. The agent stationed outside the door nodded toward an empty stairwell that took them behind the gardens, away from prying eyes.

Dorian nodded his thanks and guided Karl through the vacant hallways.

The lower levels this side of the kitchen were mercifully vacant, everyone off to serve or eat the midday meal.

The lower library was also empty, Andraste be praised. It had been thoroughly dusted, candles lit, and blankets and cushions were piled up on various seats.

He closed the door behind them. With a mere thought, he cast an invisible barrier over the door: no sound or soul could pass through until Karl was ready.

Karl’s trembling had turned to violent shakes, his teeth chattering as if he was chilled, despite the close heat of the small room.

“Amatus, I have you.” Dorian sat in the nearest arm chair, pulling Karl down into his lap, and covered them up with two of the blankets. With a gentle touch of his hand to Karl’s cheek, he guided his head down to rest on his shoulder.

Karl gripped the front of Dorian’s robes like a ship’s lifeline in a hurricane. He shook with great, wracking sobs as he finally let the hurt flow loose.

His plea was barely audible: “Love me.”

“I do, Amatus. Always.”

Dorian held him close until he’d cried himself into exhaustion, and then kept holding him.

Eventually, Karl’s breathing slowed into a peaceful, sleepy rhythm and his hands went lax. A moment later, he was asleep in his arms.

He may have held him for an hour, or a year. A lifetime.

No one, not even an archdemon, could have pulled him away.

-

After the confrontation in his parents’ quarters and his sweet, unexpected nap in Dorian’s lap, Karl washed his face and changed into fresh clothes.

Half his heart was elated to be free of his parents’ presence; the other half was terrified that he wouldn’t be able to extricate the Inquisition’s affairs from their influence. Both halves were part of the same lump of bruised flesh that pounded too fast against his ribs.

He was surprised to find Josephine alone in her office. She was usually surrounded by nobles and messengers.

What should he say? He didn’t know how to begin.

He need not have worried; the Ambassador had all well in hand.

“Good day, Inquisitor,” she gave him a professional smile. “Bann and Lady Trevelyan have had to cut their visit short and send their regrets to all who miss them. In their haste to return home, a few personal belongings were missed. They have been packed and I will send them with the next Ostwick envoy.”

“I told her I didn’t need her,” Karl blurted out, “and that we’d send them all their gold back.”

“Excellent,” Josephine said briskly, pulling a box from her bottom desk drawer. “Then I can return this hideous desk clock she gave me. I’ve had it out during visiting hours, just in case the lady would pay me a surprise visit, which she has done at least twice daily, my lord. Congratulations on your recent falling-out.”

“You—you’re okay with this?” Karl had known she’d take care of it, but she seemed _happy_ to be rid of the Trevelyans, despite the significant contributions that needed to be returned and contracts that needed to be undone.

Antivan fire flashed in the Ambassador’s eyes. “I would rather barter with the Carta and sleep with a Ben-Hassrath, my lord. With a knife under my pillow, of course.”

Karl laughed, giddy with relief, and slumped down into the chair across from her desk. “You’ve given up barding, Josie. You didn’t even want me to steal the contracts from the assassins hired to kill you.”

Josephine had been rebuilding her family’s once-powerful merchant fleets and inadvertently reactivated a century-old contract from a competing family. On Karl’s order, Leliana’s agents had stopped the House of Repose, a surprisingly scrupulous band of assassins, by burning the written contract in the assassins’ own vault.

The message was clear: Do not threaten the Inquisitor’s friends.

Josephine would have rather spent weeks forging political alliances to secure her safety. But with no document and the original purchaser of the deed decades-dead, the contract was cancelled. Now the assassins offered _her_ their help to secure the Montilyets’ transports.

She smiled. “Yes, but you appear in need of some levity, my lord.”

“That I am. But I already had a nap, and it will suffice for today. Thank you for taking care of all this. The Inquisition— _I_ am fortunate to have you as an advocate.”

-

That afternoon, when he took the seat of Judgement, Karl was determined to show the mercy his mother never had. Magister Alexius would live as comfortably as possible under guard. The rest were granted the Herald’s forgiveness and sent on their way to make amends in whatever ways they saw fit.


	26. The Champion’s Warden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, SnuggleBonnet and [ MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd). 
> 
> Want a sneak peek? I’d love to hear readers’ opinions on upcoming chapters, no beta experience required: [Contact info](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/profile).

Karl could play the Grand Game. He didn’t even mind it. He hadn’t imagined that he would ever be more than Leo’s shadow at court, but he probably knew the rules as well as any other noble—and how to break them. The masquerade was for Celene’s peace talks, but it would be the Inquisitor everyone watched most closely, Josephine had warned him. His answering smile must have been sufficiently vicious; she’d smirked back and shooed him out of her office.

Invitation to the Winter Palace secure, the Inquisition prepared to officially enter Orlais. Karl’s traveling party would be accompanied by the Nightingale of the Imperial Court and an Inquisition honor guard.

The horses of the official delegation would need new livery, just as the people would.

The Orlesians would expect them to sneak additional soldiers across the border. Leliana had plans for those agents they would allow the Orlesians to find—and those they would not.

Karl would have liked an excuse to leave Cullen behind—as did Cullen—but the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces needed to attend with the rest of the Inquisition’s leadership. At least Curly put on a brave front; he considered the formal affair part of his duties.

Cassandra was the only one who wanted to go less than Cullen. Her stubborn refusal to meet with the tailor had actually led to Josephine raising her voice. The Nevarran Princess and Antivan Lady’s row happened behind the closed door of Josephine’s office, but could be heard by everyone who lingered in the main hall to listen, including Karl, Leo, and half the tavern’s mid-day patrons.

“What are you doing?” Cassandra demanded.

“Measuring you myself, my lady,” Josephine answered.

Leo snickered and Karl grinned back. He didn’t mind sitting out on this session, but he wished he’d been allowed to observe Dorian’s—Josephine had dragged Karl away, stating that he would be a distraction to Dorian and the tailor, and that she had twenty-six documents for him to review before the next meal.

For the next several moments, the ladies did not speak, other than an occasional disgusted grunt from Cassandra.

“Done,” Josephine said brightly. “Your new uniform will be as comfortable as the armor you wear into the field, but please do not use that as an excuse to kill anyone at the fete who asks you to dance. An impolite ‘no’ will suffice.”

“I know how to be polite,” Cassandra grumbled, tromping toward the door.

Everyone except Karl and Leo scattered before the Seeker yanked the door open.

She stopped abruptly. “Inquisitor. Did you need something?”

“Just on my way to meet with the Ambassador,” Karl answered with exaggerated innocence. He had, in fact, been on his way to lunch.

“So,” Leo grinned widely, “Will you be a vision in lace, or are you going for dragon bone details?”

Cassandra glared at him.

“Velvet!” Josephine called out and Cassandra snorted, a hint of a smile finally zipping across her face before she returned to frowning.

“She likes the velvet idea,” Leo called in to Josephine.

Cassandra sighed. “Nothing gets past you, Leo, but I will knock you over if you do not clear the path so I may return to the armory.”

Karl stepped aside and Leo bowed the lady through the door.

“So,” Karl strode into Josephine’s office, “How will you get her to agree to a final fitting?”

“Leliana and I will set an ambush,” Josephine waved her elegant hand in the air as if the question was a mere trifle. “Lady Pentaghast will not know she is in the appointment until we have her cornered behind a changing screen.

“Now, the two of you will face the most scrutiny at Halamshiral.”

“Me?” Leo asked. “Isn’t Karl the flashy one?”

“Your relation to the Herald will make you a subject of scrutiny, my lord. Even beyond that, you are the successor of the Bann of Ostwick.”

Unless their mother disowned him for staying at Karl’s side. Karl glanced nervously over at Leo, who remained as calm and collected as ever.

Josephine handed them each a piece of parchment with a list of Orlesian names and territories. “Family and trade will not be the only subjects you will need to navigate on the ballroom floor.”

“Understood,” Leo said. “What can you tell us about our hostess, Grand Duchess Florianne?”

“And our date, the Duke?” Karl chimed in. He’d never before been the guest of someone who had started a civil war. His mother’s etiquette lessons had not covered the niceties required by such a situation.

Josephine smiled widely and settled into her chair, gesturing for them to take seats across from her. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. This may take a while. Let us begin with Grand Duke Gaspard’s uncle, Duke Germain. He will be in attendance, along with other members of the Council of Heralds.”

Karl regretted asking, but Leo looked interested, so Karl stayed and listened.

-

It was good that the Ambassador concluded their meeting after only an hour. Leo found Josephine’s reports on the Orlesians fascinating, but he doubted Karl wanted any more information than was absolutely necessary to keep them alive.

As soon as they exited her office, they were waylaid by Varric.

“Inquisitor,” Varric moved from where he was leaning on the wall. “Urgent message for you. But I can’t tell you here.”

Karl glanced at Leo and Leo shrugged. Varric looked over his shoulder, like he didn’t want to be overheard.

“Nervous?” Karl asked.

“Aren’t we all?” Varric answered cheerfully, but the haunted look in his eyes was something Leo hadn’t seen before.

“Lead the way, Varric,” Karl said.

“You better come, too, Hero,” Varric said.

“Hero, huh?” Excitement fluttered in Leo’s chest as he fell into step at Varric’s other side. The great Master Tethras had given him a nick name!

“It was either that, or ‘Mother Hen.’”

Leo laughed. “I like Hero just fine. Thanks, Varric.”

“Don’t be too eager to jump into one of my stories. You know I write tragedies, right?”

“I’m hoping for a happy ending this time.”

One, Maker willing, he would share with Lace. He wondered if she’d like living in a big city. The Free Marches were a long way away from the Hinterlands, where she’d lived all her life.

His breath caught in his throat. She’d promised him a dance, but they hadn’t talked about a future. After they defeated Corypheus—he was certain Karl would defeat him—would she want a life with a stuffy Marcher noble who couldn’t find his own way without a map?

His steps didn’t falter, but his worry must have shown on his face, because Karl shot him a concerned look. Leo shook his head in response. They could talk about it later, maybe over a hot cocoa.

Varric strode up the battlement steps to the northeast corner tower, which was still under renovation. A man in a black cloak sat on the stone walkway, his back against the wall. Beside him stood a dark-haired, fair-skinned warrior with the most enormous shoulders Leo had ever seen on a human. He wore full blue-and-silver Grey Warden regalia and a broadsword Leo couldn’t have lifted himself, even with Karl’s help.

“Easy, Junior,” Varric said, even though the warrior did not move. “This is the Inquisitor and his brother, Karl and Leo Trevelyan.”

Junior? _Oh_ , this was as exciting as meeting Varric!

“Warden Carver,” Leo said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The Warden raised an eyebrow. “You know my real name?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve got your own chapter in _Tale of the Champion_. It’s the one I’ve re-read the most.” In fact, meeting him was _more_ exciting than meeting Varric. According to the book, Carver was always brave enough to speak his mind, and, when tragedy struck, he embraced the way of the Wardens, leaving his family and home to save the world from darkspawn.

While Leo had no desire to leave his brother behind, he hoped to one day have that kind of courage. “And is this your brother?”

“Yeah, that’s me: Carver’s brother,” the seated man spoke with a gruff Fereldan accent and Carver rolled his eyes. The Champion of Kirkwall rose to his feet, but kept his cloak close and hood up, so not much of his fair face could be seen beyond his square jaw and close-cropped black beard.

Something was off about this traveler. Leo squinted, trying to figure it out without being obvious.

The mage didn’t carry a staff.

Well, shit, of course he didn’t. It was probably more dangerous to be seen with one than to risk going without.

“And how about _your_ brother?” Hawke asked. “Inquisitor, now? That’s quite a step up from ‘Harborer of Apostates and Heretical Rebel Supporter of Heresy.’”

“I’m honored that Varric told the Champion about me,” Karl answered with a wry smile. “I wasn’t given much choice about my new title. I’m sure you can relate.”

“I do,” Hawke said softly, all humor gone.

“What brings you to Skyhold?” Karl gestured toward a supply crate, inviting Hawke to sit.

Carver scowled, and, for one confused moment, Leo feared his ire was aimed at Karl.

Then he heard the voice of the only person who could possibly fuck over this meeting as thoroughly as Corypheus.

“Inquisitor, I was not aware we had guests—” Cullen stopped abruptly at the top of the steps as Carver stormed forward, drawing his heavy broadsword with both hands as easily as if it were Varric’s quill. The warrior was shockingly fast and nimble on his feet. His perfect battle stance would make even a darkspawn hesitate.

“Not one step closer, Rutherford,” the Grey Warden growled.

Even in his armor and huge, ugly coat, Cullen was tiny compared to Carver. He took a hurried step backward, nearly toppling down the stairs. He swallowed nervously, eying the broadsword, and gripped the railing.

Karl stepped in front of Hawke, but the mage did not cower when faced by the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall.

“Let Curly speak, brother,” Hawke said with grim sarcasm. “I’m sure he’d love to brag about how many mages he’s saved in his service to the Inquisition.”

Cullen craned his neck, trying to see beyond the sword-brandishing Warden and Karl. “Champ—?”

“Don’t.” Carver’s command was as final as death.

Leo’s heart pounded. He and Karl were unarmed, but even if they had been ready for a fight, he doubted anyone could stop Warden Carver. And Cullen tended to put his foot in it over anything having to do with Kirkwall or mages.

“Commander,” Karl said calmly. “I believe the Ambassador was looking for you.”

“Yes, indeed, Inquisitor. I will see her at once.” Cullen carefully stepped backward down the top two steps, turned, and stiffly walked away.

Half a heartbeat later, Cullen’s voice floated back up the battlement stairs. “Cassandra, I believe the Ambassador has news for us.”

“I must see the Inquisitor first.”

“Cassan—” Cullen sighed and continued down, while another set of lighter boots clattered up.

“Inquisitor, what has happened?” she asked as she reached the top, not at all winded by her rushed climb. Her eyes flickered over Carver, who now had his weapon pointed in her direction, and the hooded man not quite concealed by Karl’s body.

Her eyes widened with recognition.

“You conniving little shit!” She lunged at Varric and he dodged her punch, running around behind Leo, who stepped sideways, arms outstretched to prevent her from throwing another.

Carver laughed and sheathed his weapon. He crossed his arms over his massive chest.

“You knew where Hawke was all along!” Cassandra glowered.

“You kidnapped me, interrogated me!” Varric shot back, face contorted in disbelief at her surprise.

Leo agreed with Varric, but he didn’t want to say something that might make Cassandra throw another punch.

“Enough,” Karl said, thank the Maker.

She spun on him. “You’re taking _his_ side?!”

“Keep your voice down, Seeker Pentaghast,” Karl ordered through gritted teeth. “All of Skyhold can hear you.”

“Yes, Ser,” she answered with a sneer, but lowered her voice.

Leo sympathized with her predicament, but he was firmly in Karl and Varric’s camp on this one.

“I’ll meet you in the war room in an hour,” Karl said.

Cassandra pursed her lips at the dismissal and strode down the steps. She stormed across the courtyard. Soldiers and civilians alike scurried to get out of her way. As she approached the armory, she drew her sword and lopped the head off a practice dummy with one hand, not breaking stride. She entered the armory and slammed the door.

Hawke gave a low whistle. “The Right Hand of the Divine has to do what you say now, Trevelyan? I’m impressed.”

Leo was, too. They’d narrowly averted a mess that not even Josephine could have saved them from.

“No,” Karl told Hawke. “She could have killed you with a mere thought if you’ve had any lyrium recently.”

Carver scowled at the armory’s closed door.

“And she eats live dragons for breakfast,” Karl continued, “so let’s not prod her if we don’t have to.”

“Come on,” Varric stepped out from his hiding place behind Leo. “Live dragons? That’s far-fetched for even one of my tales. I know for a fact that she kills them first, but doesn’t care if they’re cooked or raw.”

Leo gave a shaky laugh, still wired from Cullen and Cassandra’s sudden appearance.

Karl again offered Hawke a seat on a crate. “As honored as I am to see you, my lord, I’m unclear on _why_ you risked coming here.”

“I killed Corypheus,” Hawke said. “Cut off his head.”

Well, that was . . . “What?” Leo asked. “When?”

Hawke crossed his arms over his chest. “In Kirkwall, before the riots.”

“He was very much alive at Haven,” Karl said sternly, shifting to eye Varric. “And your . . . _associate_ failed to mention a prior acquaintance. Perhaps he told you about Haven? I’m guessing in a secret letter delivered by Cadash.”

Varric was stonily quiet. Leo couldn’t imagine the burden of that kind of secret, especially after weeks—months—as Cassandra’s prisoner.

“The Magister had been trapped for centuries,” Hawke said. “Carta thugs came after my blood for a ritual to free him, lured us into an ancient Grey Warden prison, long abandoned. We were trapped: I could let my friends die, or I could open the seal and kill the bastard. The original magic was fading; if I didn’t take care of him, he’d have escaped soon anyway.”

“Blood magic?” Leo asked, horrified.

Karl’s expression remained passive.

“It was my own blood,” Hawke said. “Just a tool—and I _don’t_ barter with demons.”

Varric snorted.

“He’s not a demon,” Hawke said.

“Who?” Leo asked, but Varric looked away.

“We’re not the only people who were implicated when this shit went sideways,” Hawke continued. “Clearly, I didn’t do a very good job killing the bastard, but _I’m_ not the reason why we’re here. I’m just tailing along in my brother’s shadow, Inquisitor.”

Carver snorted. “Nice, Garrett.”

Hawke leaned back on the cold stone wall and crossed his arms. He closed his eyes and raised his face toward the warm sun. “You’re the Warden, Junior. Do your Warden thing.”

Carver sighed. “I know why Clarel sent the King’s messenger away unanswered, Inquisitor. She plans to raise a demon army.”

Well, fuck, the _Wardens_ were working with Corypheus? As soon as they were done with this conversation, Leo was going to steal one of Leliana’s birds and send a warning to Lace.

“That’s . . .” Karl cleared his throat. “Not good.”

Hawke snorted, the sound surprisingly similar to the one made by his slightly younger, significantly larger brother. “Varric, you should have called this one ‘The King of Understatement.’”

“I knew about the demon army, actually,” Karl said. “But had no idea the Wardens were involved.”

“Who _would_?” Varric muttered, and sat down by Hawke.

“Why?” Karl asked. “Why help Corypheus?”

“They don’t know it’s him,” Carver said. “I had been visiting a Fereldan Warden whose Orlesian counterpart went missing and I said I’d look into it. They’ve retreated into the Western Approach, gathering all their strength at Adamant Fortress. We tailed one of their patrols to a remote ritual tower, where—”

Carver pinched his lips together and looked out over the snow-covered mountain, his jaw set.

“The Warden mages killed the warriors in a blood ritual to summon demons,” Hawke said bluntly.

Carver leaned his hands on the wall and bowed his head. “A Tevinter Magister, Livius Erimond, convinced Clarel that it was the only way to march into the Deep Roads and kill all the old gods who could become archdemons.”

Karl sent Leo a confused look, but there hadn’t been anything about “old gods” in any of the books Leo had read.

“Old gods?” Leo asked.

“I’m fuzzy on their origins,” Hawke said. “They’re a special kind of dragon, obviously. The secret part is this: Darkspawn dig to find them, so an archdemon soul can take control of the beast. It’s as bad as it sounds. Only . . .”

Hawke looked up at his brother, the angry lines around his eyes fading into sorrow. “Only a Grey Warden’s soul can end an archdemon’s, so it doesn’t hop into another darkspawn’s body. That’s why it has to be them.”

Wardens gave up their _souls_?! The horror left Leo speechless.

“Pre-empt the Blight?” Karl asked, all business. “If it’s possible, why hasn’t anyone done it before?”

“Because it’s _not_ possible,” Varric spat out, “But if you think you’re all going to die before you save the world, you get pretty damned desperate and do stupid shit.”

“Why?” Karl asked pointedly. “Why, Carver? Why are the Wardens dying? Why are they helping a Darkspawn magister who wants to tear down the Veil? And don’t give me that bullshit that they don’t know it’s him. It’s their fucking job to know.”

Carver straightened and faced the Inquisitor. “It is our job to know, but Orlesian leadership is focused on the ‘do anything to stop the Blight’ part of our mission; any opposition, any questioning, is quickly squashed.

“I’d like to agree with Varric, but desperation, basic fear, isn’t what got us here; it’s ego. Clarel thinks she can control the demon army. I don’t think she seeks glory. It’s _pride_. She constantly talks about saving the world, even though the world hates us for it.”

“Utter Orlesian bullshit superiority,” Varric grumbled. “Her ego is a perfect match for Erimond’s.”

“Erimond’s an asshole,” Cole appeared at Varric’s side, stealth powder curling around his ankles.

“Maker!” Hawke and Carver raised their fists.

“Easy there, kid,” Varric put a hand on Cole’s elbow. “Don’t frighten the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“He’s not scared,” Cole said, with childlike honesty. “They’re both sad. I came to help, take away the hurt.”

Hunched over, Cole stepped closer to the Warden, extending his neck forward, and peering up from beneath his shaggy blond hair and wide-brimmed hat. “Burning, bloody. It’s louder when I sleep—”

“What’s your game, Trevelyan?” Carver demanded, not taking his eyes off Cole.

“That’s enough, Cole,” Karl said gently.

All Leo could do was watch, hands limp at his sides, as a friendly, murderous spirit told them exactly how screwed they were.

“It’s not his fault,” Cole took a step back, hung his head. “It’s the blood. It talks, convinces.” He raised his hand, pointed a finger at Carver. “Don’t listen. It’s lying. He made it lie. Don’t take a walk.”

“What?” Varric grabbed Cole’s arm. “When?”

Carver lowered his fists. “ _The_ walk, Cole. I won’t. The mission’s not done.”

“Kill the Elder One,” Cole said. “The voices will stop.”

Carver nodded gravely.

“Thanks, kid,” Varric patted him on the back. “How about you go make sure Chuckles has enough egg yolks to mix his red paints.”

“I want to help,” Cole said.

“It would be big help to him.” Varric gestured toward the stairs.

“All right.” Cole trotted off to the keep, gangly arms swinging. He didn’t look like he knew how to win a knife fight, but he did. He didn’t sound like he could plot and carry out assassinations, but he had.

“We’re pressed for time, Warden,” Karl’s steely look made Leo shiver. “Clarification would be appreciated.”

“During the Joining, when we become Wardens, we connect ourselves to the darkspawn, so we can sense them before they are upon us. It also gives us the power to keep an archdemon from resurrecting in another body. It’s not a gentle process. Most of us don’t make it past the cup.”

“Cup?” Leo blurted out. Surely, the Champion’s brother wouldn’t participate in a blood magic ritual.

“It’s fresh darkspawn blood,” Carver said, chin held high. “With a drop from the last archdemon, and a heavy dose of complicated magic.”

“That’s—that’s . . .” Leo sputtered, looking to the others, but all he found was grim silence. They were neither shocked, nor outraged.

Throat dry, stomach roiling, Leo swallowed hard. “Please, continue.”

“The taint lets us sense the darkspawn and kill the archdemon, but it also shortens our lives. As we near the end, we hear whispers—”

Karl straightened, blinking as if he suddenly remembered something. Leo shot him an inquiring look and he waved him off.

“—that our time has come,” Carver said. “When the Calling whispers, we travel to the Deep Roads and meet our end fighting the darkspawn, instead of wasting away in a sick bed. Only we’re all hearing the Calling at once.”

“Maker,” Leo breathed out, mind spinning. No more Wardens? Even without Corypheus, the next Blight would eat the world.

“Your skinny, mind-reading friend is right,” Carver said. “As one of the first darkspawn, Corypheus is tied to the Blight and he’s somehow used it to manufacture this false Calling. When my superior went to Clarel with this suspicion, his fellow Orlesians tried to lock him up. We helped him escape, and he’s watching their progress from a safe distance.”

“How long?” Karl asked.

“It will be another month before they’re all gathered and ready to complete the ritual for every mage under Clarel,” Carver said. “But I want to get there sooner and see what they’ve been up to.”

Leo still couldn’t wrap his mind around the shocking news that the Grey Wardens were working with Corypheus, even if they supposedly didn’t know it was him. “So, the Elder One will steal these demons from the Warden mages?”

“Ha,” Hawke scoffed. “Tell him the best part, Carver.”

“Clarel doesn’t know that Erimond’s ritual binds the mages to Corypheus. All of the mages who summoned a demon at the testing ground are his thralls.”

“Do I need to ride out today?” Karl asked, eyes burning with resolve. “If I have to choose a demon army over the Empress, I will.”

Leo’s mouth fell open. Karl would launch an all-out assault on an entire fortress of Grey Wardens?

Carver shook his head. “I think it will be enough to send us with a squad of your own, and then you follow. They’re still weeks away from their goal.”

“Fine,” Karl said, “We’ll make an appearance at Celene’s fete, secure mobile trebuchets as discreetly as possible, and meet you in the Western Approach.”

So, it was decided: The Inquisition would go to war with the Grey Wardens in Orlais.

Resignation settled on Leo’s shoulders, like the sadness that had covered him when he’d hugged Karl goodbye at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He’d set the fear aside for a while, let himself become overconfident. It was easy, when your enemy was a darkspawn Magister monster. Surely the Maker would see to it that good prevail. It was a lot harder when you fought heroes who should be allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want a sneak peek? I’d love to hear readers’ opinions on upcoming chapters, no beta experience required: [Contact info](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/profile).


	27. Lyrium Blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/works), [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata/works), and [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works). Thanks to SnuggleBonnet for character discussions. And thank you to Liz for answering all my horse questions!
> 
> If you'd like a sneak peek at an upcoming chapter, new beta readers are welcome, no experience required: [Contact info](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/profile).
> 
> Content includes blood, canon-typical body horror (Red Templars), and mentions of the death of a sibling and parent.

One of Leliana’s birds arrived in Emprise du Lion a day earlier than expected, carrying a letter addressed to Lace in Leo’s elegant, flowing handwriting.

_Dear Lace, I miss you. After the ball, we march into a battle I can’t explain here. Wherever you go, my heart is with you. Always._

Fear clawed within the walls of her chest.

“Battle? What battle?” She’d been worried about poison in the punch, or a lady’s dagger between his ribs on the dance floor. Not an outright military engagement. “We haven’t committed to Celene or Gaspard, have we?”

Ava tilted her head, as if listening to the wind. “The Inquisitor can only march south, or west. As we’re south of their position, I would guess west. Shall I go?”

“No need,” Dalish said, pointing, “An Inquisition messenger approaches from the east.”

Heart pounding, Lace hopped up on a rock to look.

 _Charter_ rode at the front of a swift-moving company of Inquisition soldiers. The news must have been dire indeed if Leliana had sent her.

Mixed in with the expected bays were two unfamiliar horses, their champagne coats and white faces bold amongst the reddish browns of the Forders: Flanking Charter in positions of honor were two burly human men, each on a Free Marches Ranger. Who could afford to ship such lovely mounts across the sea? Leo and Karl?

The humans’ rear guard included Tama on her rare Anderfel Courser, a skewbald mare quite fond of the sugar treats Lace had snuck into the stables the morning she’d left Skyhold. Her mane flowed in the wind like a glorious, white-hot flame.

At Tama’s side rode Sera. Not even the news of slaves in the Red Lyrium mines had pulled Sera from Skyhold. She was anxious outside city walls, and got lost in the wilderness almost as easily as Leo. Whatever message Charter carried, it was bad.

“Dalish, round up some grooms, please.”

“Yes, Ser!” Dalish ran off with Skinner.

Charter rode directly to where Lace stood. Even from her perch on the boulder, Lace’s chin barely came above the saddle of Charter’s horse.

“Scout Harding, I have news,” Charter said. A groom came forward and took her mount’s reins. “Where is the command tent?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Where was Tethras with a quippy comeback when you needed him? Or even that lyrium merchant, Cadash, with his flirty smile.

“This way,” Lace gestured toward the center of camp and Charter strode ahead.

“Heads up,” Ava whispered in Lace’s ear. “Champion of Kirkwall at your three o’clock.”

Lace glanced over at the two human men she hadn’t met yet. One was practically half the size of the other, but they both sported massive, sculpted muscles above their bracers, fully visible with their plain black cloaks thrown back over their shoulders as they handed their horses off to the grooms. The smaller man was still broader than Leo, who wasn’t exactly skinny himself.

“That’s Garrett Hawke,” Ava said. “The big guy’s his brother, Warden Carver.”

“Feckin’ Wardens, fecking mages,” Sera grumbled, sliding off her horse and offering Tama a hand down.

“Easy, dearest,” the Qunari soothed her.

The Warden glared in Sera’s direction, but Hawke’s lips twitched in amusement. The Champion’s short black hair and beard were scruffy, jutting out every which way, but his eyes brimmed with a bright, alert intellect. Warden Carver’s stern chin was as smooth and unmoving as a block of marble.

“When we joined, I dinna think we’d be babysitting the mage who mucked up Kirkwall. I was going to plonk nobles at the fete. Even had a name picked out for the introductions—”

“Don’t say it,” Tama warned mildly.

“—Her Ladyship Mai Bhalsych of Korse,” Sera sniggered.

The Champion doubled over with laughter, hands on his knees, great guffaws echoing across the ice-covered rocks. Everyone in camp turned to look; he took no mind of them.

Sera frowned with wary confusion.

“There’s the cook’s tent,” Warden Carver said sternly, and strode off toward it.

Hawke grinned at Sera, waggled his fingers in a cheerful wave, and trotted off after his brother.

Sera scowled harder and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Didn’t you say you were starving?” Tama asked.

Sera glared at her girlfriend, but then stuck out her hand in invitation. Tama took it and they followed after Hawke.

Lace hesitated another moment, torn between personally welcoming the Champion of Kirkwall to her camp, and meeting with Charter about the urgent news she had brought for her ears only.

“Not the brothers you were hoping to see?” Ava asked.

“I was ready to wait for the Inquisitor,” Lace said, mulling over her options. “Not sure what to do about our new guests until I talk with Charter. Can you make them feel welcome?”

“Of course, Ser,” Ava lay a reassuring hand on Lace’s shoulder, then headed for the campfire in front of the cook’s tent.

Warden Carver sat on a stump, eating a chicken drumstick and glaring across the campfire at The Iron Bull, who was deep in telling a story to the Champion. Bull spread his arms wide, boisterously describing one of Rocky’s more disastrous contributions toward the Chargers’ work. Hawke laughed and gave Bull a friendly punch on the shoulder.

Lace sighed and ran off to the command tent. She ducked inside to find Charter there alone, having dismissed the scribe and all the guards. With speedy, elegant hands, the elf had stretched out a new map across the makeshift table—a slab of driftwood over a boulder—and was setting pewter markers at various points.

“Sorry not to have better news, Lace,” Charter said. “We found the source of the demon army: A Tevinter magister secretly working for Corypheus has convinced Warden-Commander Clarel to raise and march the demons into the Deep Roads to end the Blight once and for all. The Wardens erroneously think they’re all dying of Blight sickness soon and this is their last chance.” Charter stuck a final marker on the map and looked up with grim determination.

“Clarel is ordering her mages to kill her warriors in blood rituals to bind the demons.”

The news plowed through Lace like a charging bronto. She gripped the table edge for support, only to have the top teeter in her grip. Charter grabbed the other end, keeping her upright and the table’s markers intact.

“Whu—pardon?” Lace asked, shock a hollow, uncomprehending space in her chest.

Charter gave her a quiet moment for the news to sink in.

The tent flap flew open, startling them both, and Ava was suddenly at Lace’s side, putting her arm around Lace’s shoulders. “I know you’re keeping your voices down, but every elf in the camp heard that. Possibly every Qunari, too. I can put up a sound barrier, if you wish.”

Lace nodded and Ava waved her hand in a circle in the air. “That should last around the tent until we leave.”

Lace slowly released her grip on the table, glad for Ava’s grounding touch. “Grey Wardens are murdering each other to raise a demon army because they think it’s the only way to stop the Blight, but Corypheus is going to steal the demons?”

“Some warriors have willingly gone into the sacrifice,” Charter said with a disgusted sneer. “And he doesn’t need to steal the demons by force; the ritual binds the mages as his thralls. Some have already completed the ritual.”

“They think they’re all dying of Blight sickness?” Lace asked. Another panicked thought ran through her mind, a fear for her own homeland. “The King?!”

“Alistair remains in Denerim,” Charter said. “Clarel hid her plans from him. Leliana assures me he won’t do anything rash, or take the Long Walk.”

Lace’s family had been Surfacers for generations, but they all knew what “the Long Walk” was. It was one of very few reasons Orzammar would let outsiders in.

Darkspawn. Demons. Grey Wardens who had gone mad. Suddenly, guarding a few remote Fade rifts in the frozen wilderness seemed a small task.

Dread closed around Lace’s heart, like an armored fist. “Leo marches on the Wardens?”

Ava squeezed Lace tight to her side, and Lace was grateful for it. Otherwise she might fall to the ground in tears.

“Yes,” Charter said. “After Celene’s peace talks, the Inquisitor and Lord Leo Trevelyan will lead the main company to Adamant Fortress. Grey Warden Carver Hawke is our liaison for this mission. We will be some of their reinforcements, each company on a different route, since we still don’t have dispensation from the Empress to be here.”

“Permission be damned,” Lace said. “We can’t afford to wait.”

She wrapped an arm around Ava’s waist and rested her head against her friend’s side. “Andraste’s pyre, Ava, how are we going to survive this?”

“With Mythal’s blessing, we will win.”

Charter raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced.

Lace sighed. “I wish I had your confidence.”

With Charter and Ava’s help, Lace wrote up which details they would share with the troops. They memorized the script, then Ava burned it in her fist, and they went out to tell everyone, one small group at a time, that they would be leaving the snows of Emprise du Lion to march on the sands of the Western Approach—to fight an army of Grey Wardens and demons.

More than one agent teared up at the news, but everyone was resolute in their support of the mission.

The task brought to light the sheer number of people now under Lace’s command. When had such influence become her daily routine? When had addressing a company of fully armored human soldiers become a right she assumed without question? A year ago, she’d lived with no one but her beautiful parents, and worked with three other farmers.

Grim duty done, Lace wandered out of the camp, toward a cliff overlooking one of the Fade rifts. The crackling of the rift echoed up to her. The demons around it floated or paced within twenty yards of it. The rift did not grow larger, and the demons didn’t wander off. Like they wanted back through but couldn’t find their way.

Maybe they just wanted to go home, as she did. For the first time in her life, she’d miss foaling season. True, her mission here was bigger, but . . . she was yearning to see the new foals of Redcliffe Farms; and the druaffalo calves. Horsemaster Dennet was off serving at Skyhold, so Elaina and Bron would be stuck managing both herds on their own. They’d hire more help from the village, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same.

“Creepy place for reflection, Boss,” Bull climbed up the hill to stand by her.

She smiled, heart warmed by his presence. She may have been far from home, and yearning for Leo with a pain she hadn’t known possible, but she was remiss to forget she had friends here, too.

During battles and training, Bull still wore his weapon harness without a shirt, but he’d let Dalish drape a blanket over his shoulders this afternoon. It was a lovely, bright cape of sheep’s wool woven with giant stars in all the different colors of flowers found in the Hinterlands. It made him look even more powerful than the time he’d showed her his full plate mail.

He shifted, putting more weight in his good foot. Lace glanced down at the brace on his other ankle.

“Cold bothering your foot?”

“’Sss fine,” he said, “But the missing fingers ache something fierce. Sons of bitches been gone for years, but still.” He shrugged, rubbing one hand with the other and then tucking them back under the blanket. “Looking forward to the desert. The demons—” he eyed the rift below “—not so much.”

“Would you rather another assignment? Bandits in the Hinterlands, perhaps? You’d be helping my neighbors and making Arl Teagan happy. Some nice coin on top of your Inquisition contract.”

“Think I can’t handle it, Boss?” He kept his voice even, but there was a bit of bite under the surface. “I mean, guarding your folks and farms is a worthy cause and all, but do you think I’d turn tail when I heard ‘demon army?’”

“No, Bull, I’d never doubt you like that.” She hugged her arms around herself and shivered. “I don’t think _any_ of us has a good chance. I have to go. You don’t. And I’d rather you lived.”

“I _do_ have to go, Lace,” he said. “If for no other reason than to keep safe the Inquisitor’s brother’s girlfriend.”

“Hey!” she punched him in the arm—she had to reach high up to get past his elbow—and he grunted. “I can handle myself just fine, Ser.”

He laughed. “Yes, yes you can.”

She grinned back up at him.

“Come here,” he said, opening up his blanket. She stepped forward and he scooped her up into a warm hug, lifting her as easily a small child, though she was a sturdy dwarf.

“You know,” he said, “No one would mind if I carried you back to camp.”

“ _I_ would,” she laughed, shoving at his shoulder and he set her down.

“Damn,” he said. “Means I gotta look down to talk to you.”

“You’ll live. Let’s go pack.”

“Lead the way, Boss.”

-

They woke when it was still dark, and left at first light.

Charter led her agents along a route parallel to Lace’s, just out of sight and hearing. The Bull’s Chargers accompanied her force, with Dalish and Skinner as forward and rear guards.

Lace left a small garrison at the camp, to make sure no village folk or livestock wandered too close to the rifts. She assigned everyone else to ride with her to guard the Hawke brothers. With Ava at her side and the Chargers serving with Charter, the mission seemed almost possible.

Almost.

The Champion munched on an apple as he rode. His brother had eaten six apples, and was on his third piece of nug jerky. Lace was beginning to wonder if all the spare saddle bags from Skyhold held nothing but provisions for the Grey Warden.

Sera had overcome her fears enough to speak directly with their two new, very famous allies. Lace wasn’t sure that was an improvement.

“We need Wardens,” Sera told Carver. “Don’t let your mages fuck this up.”

“I don’t think I’m the greatest danger here,” Carver said, eyeing Tama. “Nice binding stone you’ve got hidden under that tabard.”

“Your family has nothing to fear from me, Ser Warden,” the Qunari said, brushing her fingers through her mare’s white mane. The horse had a white star in the middle of her sleek brown forehead.

“My father survived the Joining, only to be betrayed at Ostagar. I regret that he and his comrades could not save your King.”

“My King?” Carver’s tone went from surly to surprised.

“You are originally from Lothering, are you not? You are Fereldan, no matter where your family holds property. And after your brother killed the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, it’s not like you can return there.”

“Wardens follow no ruler,” Hawke said between juicy bites of apple.

“If you believe that, then you are not the Champion from the tales,” Tama said mildly.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Hawke tossed his apple core into the bushes along the path. “Varric exaggerated.”

“No, he didn’t,” Carver grunted. “You’re taller than he wrote.”

Hawke grinned, “And you’re broader.”

He nodded to Tama, “Nice Warden horse you’ve got there. Junior’s always wanted one.” Carver’s scowl deepened, but Hawke went on. “Was she your father’s?”

“Yes,” the Qunari answered casually. “That was how we knew he was dead. She would not have left him otherwise.”

“Why don’t you carry a staff?” Sera blurted out.

As they had prepared to ride out, the Champion had donned dual blades much like Karl and Leo’s. Frankly, Lace hadn’t thought much about it, beyond the casual relief of knowing everyone in her riding party was armed, should they encounter trouble.

“I’m conspicuous enough without one, don’t you think?” Hawke asked. “And blades are good for when you need to defend yourself in close quarters. Fire is flashy, but you’re as likely to burn yourself as your opponent. Even back in Lothering, we tried to not draw attention to ourselves, so Father showed us how to use tools other than staffs.”

Carver snorted. “The first time Garrett picked up a staff, it exploded into splinters. He was too chicken shit to try picking up another.”

“Sensible,” his brother replied casually, “not chicken.”

“You forced too much mana through it,” Ava said. “You were accustomed to the depth of power needed to imbue a non-magic item. Just use a lighter touch next time, and the staff will amplify whatever you do. It also makes a good pole for bashing helmets in.”

“Light touch?” Hawke feigned shock and put a hand over his chest. “Me?”

Carver sniggered.

“Though,” Hawke’s mirth faded, “my methods haven’t always saved the day. It was our sister who shielded our mother when I was busy stabbing darkspawn. She _did_ have a staff, but it shattered when an ogre crushed her.”

“That’s . . .” Sera looked away. “Terrible. Least your mum came out. I mean, I assume she was nice. Never had a real family before Tama. Had to go live with a human lady ’cause I pinched some food and got caught.”

Tama patted Sera’s leg as she rode beside her.

“It didn’t turn out,” Carver said tersely, glaring at the last bite of his jerky and tossing it on the ground. “We get her to the ‘ _safety_ ’ of Kirkwall and some serial killer who wants his dead wife back steals Mother away from us.”

Garrett bowed his head. “Another time I was too late.”

“Not your fault,” Carver said, eyes forward, jaw clenched. “That Necromancer was stark raving mad.”

“Why was he loose?” Sera asked. “Can’t see General Uptight allowing that. It’s okay he doesn’t lock up Karl’s boyfriend, but a Kirkwall mage loose? That’s scary. And all Cassandra can do is make fun of me.”

Carver shot his brother a confused look and Hawke smiled.

“Girl’s got some nice cheekbones,” Sera went on, “but she’s pretty dense about sensible things, the stuff we’ve been warned about my whole life.”

“The Chantry’s teachings on magic?” Hawke asked.

“Well, yeah. Like you said, fire burns, you know. Magisters cracked the Golden City and made darkspawn. Abominations pop up at the Circle by Redcliffe. Mages losing their fool minds left and right. It’s _smart_ to be scared.”

“You certainly are wise to be cautious,” Hawke replied.

“You’re not gonna tell me mages should be free?”

“Oh, definitely, most of us should be free, just like any other person. And just like any other person, you should be wary of strangers until they’ve proven themselves friends. Be wary, but be generous.”

“You addled?” Sera asked. “‘Wary but generous.’ Whut even does that—”

Hawke slowed his horse to a stop and raised his hand, calling for quiet. His mount stood perfectly still, ears twitching.

Sera’s scowl deepened, but she didn’t say anything.

Lace’s heart pounded in her ears. All she caught was some birdsong and the wuffle of the horses’ mingled breaths. The creak of leather saddles.

The birds went quiet.

Ava peered off to their right, where bare tree trunks and green pines clumped together to block the view of anything but the tree line they’d been riding along for miles. They’d left most of the snow behind, but the ground was still frozen. That meant no mud for their horses to get stuck in; It also meant other travelers wouldn’t have left much evidence along the trail.

“You hear that, Champion?” Ava asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” Hawke’s answer was thick, heavy.

Carver narrowed his eyes, “Red Templars.”

“Shite,” Sera speedily strung her bow, perfectly balanced in the saddle, despite the terror on her face. “Red magic.”

Despite all the Red Templars Lace had defeated on the Storm Coast and at the Red Lyrium mines, she had to agree with Sera’s sentiment. There was the additional worry that they had no idea the size and composition of the approaching forces.

The Hawke brothers dismounted, tossing their reins up over their horses, leaving them loose to run. At alert, neither brave beast left their rider.

With a pang, Lace thought of Pepper, and how Leo had kissed his horse’s nose the day they’d met. Lace would bet her very life that Pepper wouldn’t have left Leo’s side either. It took _years_ of dedication and love to make a horse ignore its flight instincts and face battle head-on.

Carver unstrapped his broadsword from his saddle.

Lace gestured for the mounted soldiers behind them to spread out along the path, then accepted Ava’s assistance to dismount. She strung her bow, checked her daggers, and joined Tama on the ground beside Sera’s horse.

With fluid grace, Sera tucked her knees to her chest and stood up on her horse’s back.

Ava joined the Champion. “Too late to flank them?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, then grinned. “But I think I can still get the drop on them.”

Hawke reached his gloved hand forward, wiggling his fingers. Tendrils of green Fade magic appeared at his feet and snaked across the ground into the trees.

“Ugh,” Sera wrinkled her nose.

“A little to your left,” Ava said.

Hawke closed his fist, yanking backward.

With an angry roar that shook the ground, a Red Templar Lieutenant came crashing through the trees on his back, dragged by the green coil of magic Hawke had latched around his ankle. Carver leapt forward, swinging his broadsword down on the Templar’s throat with a gruesome crunch. Purple lightning flickered at the Templar’s fingertips, and then the body went still.

More shouts rose up from the trees. Armored boots pounded their way.

Swordsmen and archers charged from the forest, heedless of cover. Another blocky Lieutenant stood at the tree line, shooting purple lightning from his hands into the back of one of his own foot soldiers, swiftly growing the soldier into a hideous, spiky gray-and-red beast with claws for hands.

“The big one with the bucket on his head!” Sera said, bending her knees.

Nock, draw, release. Lace sent an arrow zinging into the Lieutenant’s face, just as Sera took a leaping shot backward from the horse, her arrow hitting true in the same place. The Templar fell to his back like a stone.

Carver swept his sword through three swordsmen with the swift grace of a dancer. Hawke and Ava parried blades with others, occasionally tossing a fireball or ice spell on an archer who came into range. _Thwat, thwat, thwatt._ Lace and Sera picked off the other archers while Tama shield bashed and cut down every swordsman who lunged for them. The mounted Inquisition soldiers rode through the Red Templars’ ranks, felling the next wave of foot soldiers before they could reach the Hawke brothers.

The bellow of a large beast made Lace’s heart skip a beat. Her shoulder, healed weeks ago, twinged with the memory of her fall over the cliff. Her stomach churned.

“No, no, no, no, no!” She ran forward to Hawke’s side. “Behemoth incoming! It’s got long arms! Stay out of range! Keep the horses back!” she shouted to the mounted soldiers.

The monster crashed out of the trees and smashed its clubbed arm into the ground, mistaking one of its fallen comrades for an enemy.

“It’s soft behind the knees,” Lace said. “But nowhere else.”

“I love an opponent with a clear weakness,” Hawke grinned. “Let’s go then.” He Fade Stepped toward the beast.

“Idiot,” Carver grumbled, running after him with Ava.

Sera grabbed Tama by the belt, “Oh no you don’t.”

“No worries there, luv. Just turn the bastard into a pin cushion. I’ll cover you.”

Lace tossed her half-empty quiver to Sera and ran after Ava.

“Ha ha!” Hawke dodged the Behemoth’s club arm and hit it in the face with a ball of ice. Carver hewed off the end of the clubbed arm and the beast roared. Ava stabbed it behind the knee and it fell forward with one last, desperate swing of its smaller arm as all three of Lace’s allies dealt fatal blows to the back of its spiky head.

By the time Lace trotted up, the Behemoth was dead.

Hawke winked, “Sorry, we didn’t save any for you.”

“It’s okay. I took out the last Behemoth. I don’t mind sharing this one.”

“You did?” Hawke’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Varric didn’t tell me. You’ll have to regale us with that tale tonight.”

He took a step forward—and wobbled.

“Uh,” Hawke said, “I may be in need of assistance.” He sat heavily on the ground.

“Garrett!” Carver ran to his side. “Where are you hit?”

“Lay as still as you can,” Ava said. She sat behind Hawke, eased him back to rest his head on her lap.

“Um, arm?” Hawke answered, breath turning ragged as he slowly turned his head to look down. “Don’t touch it!”

A shard of Red Lyrium the size of a boot knife protruded through his torn leather armor.

Great. Leo and Karl had entrusted her with the Champion of Kirkwall and she might have gotten him killed only a day into traveling with him.

“Here, let me,” she said, pulling her dragon skin gloves from her rear belt pouch. They limited her movement too much in combat, but were perfect for hauling branches, tending fires—or handling dangerous substances. “I’m more resistant than any of you.”

“Fine,” Hawke grit out. “You’re probably going to have to kneel on my hand to get enough leverage.”

“Okay,” she said, pinning his open hand between her knee and the frozen ground. She wrapped her gloved hands around the shard, made sure she had it at exactly the angle it had gone in, and yanked. Despite the shard’s small size and smooth surface, it was like pulling a reluctant sapling out of the ground. Like it had long, deep roots.

The wound was surprisingly small, a thin red line with only a little trickle of blood. Lace’s concern grew larger: whatever made Red Lyrium different also made injuries different. After just a few seconds’ contact, it had felled a large, experienced fighter into near helplessness, yet he wasn’t even bleeding enough for his cut to purge debris from the injury.

“Thanks,” Garrett huffed, flopping his head back against the ground. “Now freeze it.”

Lace set the shard on the ground and Ava encased it in a block of ice.

Hawke’s face had gone stark white, with red winding its way along the bulging veins under his fair skin.

Panic rose in Lace’s chest. “Ava? Can you heal this? Is this lyrium poisoning? Do you have any charcoal?”

Ava shook her head. “It’s a form of lyrium, but with a parasitic property I don’t fully understand.”

“It’s Blight sickness,” Carver fell to his knees at his brother’s side. “Sweet Andraste, why didn’t I figure it out before? Red lyrium is a _living_ substance that has the Blight! That’s what Red Templar’s blood song is. Garrett, you sound like a dim echo of a darkspawn.”

Hawke raised his head with a watery cough. His face scrunched up in pain. “Not doin’ it, Junior. Won’t become a Warden. Can’t.”

Carver gripped his hand. “I know.”

“Outran the darkspawn at Lothering, only to have Templars infect me. Marvelous.”

Hawke sighed and lay his head back in Ava’s lap. “Got a lyrium dagger?” he asked.

“Not going to ask how you knew to ask that,” Ava said. “The sheath is shielded so other mages don’t notice.” She pulled a small, glowing blue blade from a sheath on her belt. The blade was barely as long as Lace’s palm.

“Did a favor for a dragon once. Still whispers to me sometimes.”

The explanation made no sense to Lace, but Ava smiled, “You make the most unlikely friends, Ser Hawke.”

“Yeah, that’s me, Ser Charming. Mind if I ruin your blade?”

She offered it to him, handle first. “Do you want me to assist?”

“No. No reason to risk infecting you, if this doesn’t work.”

“ _What_ are you doing Garrett?” Carver lunged for the blade, but his brother moved it out of his reach even faster.

“The dagger’s a better source than I am. If I hurry, the Blighted lyrium will take root in the dagger’s pure lyrium, instead of me.”

“I’ll do it,” Carver held his hand out, offering instead of grabbing. “You just focus on the magic part.”

“Ease the tip— _just_ the tip, or my body will try to pull the whole thing in—into the existing wound,” Hawke handed the dagger over. “Scout Ava, step back, please. Uh, a silence barrier would be appreciated, so the Inquisition’s soldiers don’t hear the great Champion squealing like a nug.”

Ava rolled her cloak into a pillow under Hawke’s neck. She rose and took several steps backward. “Done,” she said. “Yell all you wish.”

“Harding, I wouldn’t mind a hand to hold, so I don’t punch my brother.”

“Of course.” She knelt beside the Champion of Kirkwall, linking her gloved fingers with his and taking hold of his upper arm with her other hand. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Now, Carver,” Hawke said calmly.

Knee planted on his brother’s open hand to keep him still, the Warden slowly eased the knife tip toward the wound, a cut so small, even a novice healer could have mended it, had it not been Blight-infected.

Lace held back a gasp when a swirling tendril of blood _leapt up_ to meet the blade before it made contact.

Once the blade tip was in, Carver kept it steady with both hands, sharp eyes focused on the point.

Despite his jest about squealing, Hawke lay still, eyes wide with pain and concentration as he silently squeezed her hand.

After a tense, quiet minute, Carver grunted with effort, but did not falter.

Hawke’s wide brown eyes flashed to amber, with a tiny sliver of black pupil, like the dragons in Chantry paintings. His lips sped through a silent incantation. His arm shook in Lace’s grasp, but they held tight to each other.

“Pull it out!” Hawke ordered.

Brow furrowed with effort, Carver eased back, as if the blade was being pulled by a great force from the other end. A trail of red blood raced up after it, delving into the lyrium blade, which glowed as red as any enemy they’d yet fought.

“Lead sheath!” Hawke said. “Don’t let any blood escape.”

Ava pulled the sheath from her belt and tossed it to Carver, who sheathed the blade and stuck it in his belt pouch.

“It’s done,” Hawke released a heavy breath. His dragon eyes reverted to his natural brown and his eyelids drooped, his grip slackening on Lace’s hand. “What do we do . . .” his head lolled, “ . . . with the bodies? They’ll . . . poison the road.”

His eyes drifted shut and his breath moved easily. Hawke slept.

Ava came forward and placed her hand on Caver’s shoulder. “May I heal his cut?”

“Please.”

She knelt beside Carver and cupped a hand over Hawke’s arm. “Done.”

“Will he live?” Carver asked, broad shoulders slumped, looking very young and lost. Like a boy playing in his father’s armor.

“I can’t promise anything, but I think his chances are good. He’ll be tired and sore for a few days. I’ve some herbs to help prevent other infections,” Ava patted Carver’s shoulder. “I’ll set up a tent for you two.”

“If someone can watch over him, I’ll help with cleanup,” Carver said. “I’m already connected to the Blight. But I suppose you two knew that, after yesterday.” He sighed. “Thank you. For leaving that part out of the briefing. You could have told the troops everything, and it’s nice to have at least one Warden secret not go public. We’re in enough trouble as it is.”

-

Lace sent two swift riders out to intercept Charter’s company with news of the ambush. Charter stopped to set camp early and sent the Bull’s Chargers to assist with cleanup. Lace was lashing some freshly-cut logs together to make a sled when The Iron Bull found her.

“Can’t let you out of my sight for even a day’s ride, can I Boss?” Bull asked.

“Nope,” she smiled and handed him the tow line for the sled. “We’re moving the bodies away from the road.”

“Yeah, what a mess.” He surveyed the battlefield. “How many did we lose?”

A wave of pride hummed through her at that; he hadn’t met most of these soldiers, but he still felt invested. Her people were his.

“None, I’m happy to report. A few minor injuries for our troops, but they didn’t take us by surprise, thanks to the Hawkes and Ava. The Champion was critically injured, however, when fighting the behemoth.”

“So, there _was_ one of those things.” Bull got down on one knee, looked her in the eye. “You okay, Lace?”

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “I’m so short, I didn’t even get there until it was dead.”

He tilted his head, gave her a hard look. “You were surrounded by a bunch of these red, glowing freaks. Are you okay?”

“Yes, Bull, I promise. Now, let’s get this done before the sun goes down.”

Ava didn’t want to build a pyre, because she didn’t know what vapors the Red Templars’ bodies might release into the air. Leaving them in a wooded area could poison the soil, roots, and wildlife, so they moved the Templars to a barren patch of ground on the other side of the road, a good long walk off.

Ava and Dalish erected layer upon layer of ice walls into makeshift tombs above the already-frozen ground. Despite lyrium and regeneration potions, both women were stooped with fatigue by sunset, and yet they trudged on in their task. A dozen Inquisition soldiers held torches aloft for another two hours so the rest of them could finish entombing the tainted bodies.

In the morning, Lace would send word to the Cadashes, requesting they look into a more permanent solution; should a spring thaw ever reach this area, she didn’t want to release a Blight sickness on the land.

Mana nearly depleted, Dalish and Ava held hands to amplify their power. With one last push of effort, they erected a seamless piece of ice over the final burial mound.

“It’s done,” Ava sighed. “Mythal be praised.”

“Thank you,” Lace rubbed her dry, scratchy eyes. She didn’t dare sit down to catch her breath. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to get up again, and sleeping out in the cold would be a deadly mistake. “Without the two of you, we might have lost already.”

“Oh, that’s kind of you to say, Ser,” Dalish said, “But you would have found a way. Not as stylishly, of course, but you’d be victorious nonetheless.”

“Come,” Ava wrapped her arm around Lace’s shoulders. “Let’s find the tent Grim set up for us. He’s already joined the watch.”

Lace was grateful for her warm bedroll next to Ava’s. She was even more grateful to sleep like the Stone. She had no desire to dream of red faces or dragon-eyed Champions. And she worried about Leo enough in her waking hours; he didn’t need her fretting in her sleep as well.

She’d sent word to Charter that they would rest here another full day. The battle and its aftermath had exhausted everyone. If Hawke was well enough the day after that, they would continue their march for the Western Approach.

Tomorrow would be worse: She’d have little to do, except worry about the masquerade. No point in watching for a bird from Leliana or Leo, because the fete wouldn’t be until late. Then— _then_ —the next day Lace could ask Ava to lead them onward, while Lace watched the skies for news.

She would not rest properly again until she saw for herself Leo alive and whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like a sneak peek at an upcoming chapter, new beta readers are welcome, no experience required: [Contact info](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/profile).


	28. Wicked Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [RedEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris), SnuggleBonnet, [ MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd), and [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata).
> 
> Content includes canon-typical blood and violence. I’ve also taken some creative liberties with the chronology and specific details of this quest. Enjoy!
> 
>  

Neither Gaspard nor Celene had offered accommodations, not that Karl would have accepted such an offer. He knew better than to show a close attachment to any faction embroiled in a civil war. Attending the peace talks as Gaspard’s guest was as close an affiliation as they could risk.

Josephine had secured the use of a townhouse from a lesser Orlesian noble who specialized in the fine silks trade. The Orlesians might hesitate to scorn the mighty Inquisition for such an innocuous choice, and Josephine’s contact was ecstatic to have the honor, even welcoming the Inquisitor’s entire honor guard to make camp on the estate grounds.

Karl and Leo’s suites were connected with a sleek dressing room that boasted high windows. The late afternoon sun was warm on Karl’s cheek as he set his shaving kit out next to the porcelain bowl on the vanity, ready to groom and dress himself for the ball. He and Leo had dismissed the valets their hostess had provided, preferring to help each other with their cuffs and catch a few private moments before Celene’s fete.

Karl was only mildly interested in the party, but Corypheus wanted Celene dead, and if they could prevent the assassination, Thedas would be better off. Then again, maybe their opponent planned to strike after the peace talks, in which case the Empress’ own security would have to suffice. And this attempted intervention was an exercise in futility.

“I want to grow my hair out for Lace,” Leo said.

“What?” Karl looked over. His brother stood at his own basin, one hand full of foam, staring at himself in the mirror. How long had he been standing like that? He was usually the first ready; and the most tidy. “Uh, sure. Whatever. Grandad let his hair grow. But you should do it for you, not her.”

“I can’t go like this tonight,” Leo furiously rubbed his dry hand over the short, fast-growing carpet of wiry curls that had grown since his last shave. He hadn’t been this agitated since they’d faced the Pride demon at the Temple.

“There’s nothing improper about showing your hair, Leo. Even to Orlesians.”

Leo scowled at him. “Then why do you still shave?”

“Habit? Fear?” Not that his mother could box his ears for such a transgression now. “To remain as innocuous as possible? I don’t know, but it’s a pain in the ass and after our time up in the frigid mountains, my skin’s chapped. So maybe we should both skip it tonight.”

“Deal,” Leo said swiftly, delving his hands into the rinse basin.

Karl set his shaving blade aside and fetched Leo’s new shirt. Black and white for the future bann this evening, with scroll detailing on the jacket lapels, while Karl would go in blue silk. He hoped Dorian would think it fancy enough. The Orlesian nobles would strut around in fluffy sleeves, doublets, and masques; Karl and Leo wore sleek, square cut jackets. Karl had asked Josephine if all the Inquisition’s representatives could forgo wearing the Orlesian masques and she had assured him that while it was a bold statement—they were willing to play by their own rules—it should garner respect for exactly the same reason.

“I think they impede vision too much,” he’d told her, but the real reason was the sample masque he’d tried on for the tailor had made him feel like he had his face pressed against a closet floor.

Once every pin, button, and fold was properly in place, Leo went to check on the carriages and Karl crossed the hall to Dorian’s room.

He hesitated, breath quickening with excitement. It was always exciting with Dorian, even when they did nothing but sit in front of the fire. To just be near him. To hear him speak, watch him smile. The little crinkle of lines around his eyes and mouth that he tried to smooth over with fancy creams every day. All of it.

Karl braced his hand on the door frame and squeezed his eyes shut tight. When he opened them, Dorian would still be there, alive, whole, _vibrantly_ himself. With something witty to say. Or sweet. Dorian was so attentive to their mutual comfort.

And yet Dorian didn’t consider himself exempt from the worries of the world. He fought them. His caustic comments always supported the weak; _that_ was what separated him from the magisters of fearsome legend. His brilliance tolerated no bullshit from those he knew could do better. And he demanded more of himself than of anyone else.

Karl breathed deep, catching a light whiff of the Fade mingled with Tevinter perfumes, and knocked.

“Enter.” Just those two syllables made Karl’s heart catch in his throat.

Dorian was alone in his suite, watching the fading light through his window. He proudly wore white Tevinter mage robes with gold and silver details. The glimmer would draw all the court’s attention, but it was the man himself who drew Karl into the room, his heart pounding.

“I wondered how long you were going to breathe on my door before you remembered how to turn a handle.”

“Heh,” Karl stepped to his side. “Would you prefer a room the other side of the house? Direct sun there.”

“Ah,” Dorian lifted his hands toward the window, “But in the morning, the sun will be here. Perhaps you’d like to join me for it.”

“Do you even need to ask? I always say yes.”

“And I will always ask,” Dorian said, turning to take Karl’s hand in his perfectly smooth fingers. “Always, Amatus.”

“Save me a dance tonight?” Karl asked.

“Why not now? Seize the moment, so to speak.” Dorian raised their joined hands and gripped Karl’s waist with his other, startling him with a merry, high-stepped jig. “La-tee-da-ta-ta!”

Karl laughed, spinning around with him, following every scampering bit. “Yes,” he huffed when Dorian spun them to a stop. “That’s exactly the kind of dance I expect to see from the Empress.”

“There will be a few waltzes, too, I’m sure,” Dorian drew him closer, lowered his voice suggestively. His hand moved lower, too, over Karl’s ass.

A pleasant heat rushed through Karl’s blood. “You’ve seized something other than the moment, my lord,” he grinned. “I’m very interested in learning the next step of this particular dance.”

“Alas, Amatus, I fear what the good lady ambassador would do to me should I wrinkle your lovely silks. We will need to continue this particular lesson after the party.”

Karl pressed a brief kiss to his lips. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

Purple fire flashed in Dorian’s eyes. He took Karl’s face in both hands and kissed him back with a desperate hunger that made Karl groan.

When they parted, Dorian rested their foreheads together and massaged the back of Karl’s neck. “The things you say,” he whispered.

-

The formal clothes and promise of intrigue didn’t . . . _intrigue_ Leo as they usually did. Several times an hour he found himself ruminating over Lace’s promise that he could commission her a fancy gown to wear at drafty Skyhold.

As the appointed hour approached, he made himself focus on the evening’s festivities. But his heart was way off in the ice-covered wilderness of Emprise du Lion.

“My lady, you truly are the glory of Antiva,” Leo offered Josephine a hand out of the carriage in front of the Winter Palace, bowing as Karl took his place as her escort: The Inquisitor and Ambassador would lead the Inquisition into the ball. She was a vision in a shining, shimmering gold ball gown that made the other ladies of the court look dowdy. Her hoop was only slightly smaller than the dowager’s.

“Even more beautiful than your homeland’s gorgeous weather,” Dorian added with a bow and Josephine smiled brilliantly in return.

Cassandra and Cullen passed their horses off to grooms and took up positions behind Josephine. They looked surly, despite the rich plum color of their dress uniforms. As promised, the lady Seeker’s had velvet details worthy of a Nevarran princess. She would see herself through the gates, as the Right Hand of the Divine required no escort.

Neither did the Left Hand, but Leliana was fully dedicated to the Grand Game and its formalities.

“Oh, Josie, these shoes are marvelous. Thank you so much.” Leliana stepped forth from the carriage with a bright smile, her dress a simpler, smaller version of Josephine’s, but in the purple and silver details she always wore. She rested her hand lightly on Leo’s offered arm: The Nightingale of the Imperial Court and future Bann of Ostwick would be the second couple to enter the gates.

Cassandra grunted, “Are you wearing chainmail under that?”

“Under?” Leliana laughed. When she stepped forward, the garden torchlight shimmered off the finely woven silver chains of her gown. “Want to guess where my knives are?”

“No,” Cassandra said sternly.

Cullen adjusted his collar, lips pursed and cheeks pink.

“Niceness before knives, Leliana,” Josephine said. “You know very well how you speak to the court is a matter of life and death.” She caught herself fiddling with her skirt and set her free hand on Karl’s arm as well. “Every word, every gesture is measured and evaluated for weakness. You were safer staring down Corypheus.”

Leo shared a smile with Leliana. Josephine was earnest in her warnings, but he had no doubt that she could blackmail the entire court into submission within five minutes, even without Leliana’s help. He’d seen her “niceness” during their war councils; she’d even ruined a noble marriage by arranging a certain pair of gloves be left on the gentleman’s table, freeing an asset for the Inquisition’s benefit.

No trumpets greeted them, but the Empress’ guards bowed low when they opened the gates to the front garden, allowing an honor guard of Inquisition soldiers to line the walkway as the Inquisitor entered.

Leo and Leliana waited by the ostentatious fountain in the garden’s center while Karl and Josephine were formally greeted by Grand Duke Gaspard, who wore a gold masque over his upper face. His posture was regal.

“I doubt Gaspard would bow to a self-proclaimed god,” Leo said, “He was groomed his whole life to be Emperor. Walks like it, too. Do you think he’s plotting assassination on his own?”

“If so, perhaps we should let him.” Leliana casually perused the raised flower beds, ran a gentle finger across the petal of a pansy.

“Excuse me?” Leo coughed. Assassinating royalty—or allowing royalty to be assassinated—had definitely _not_ been one of the options discussed in the war room.

“To foil Corypheus’ plan, the empire must remain strong. This evening, someone must emerge victorious. That does not need to be Celene, herself a usurper.”

“These are _peace_ talks, Leliana,” Leo hissed, his concern growing with her cold appraisal. “And doesn’t Gaspard want to invade Ferelden again? Aren’t you King Alistair’s _friend_?”

“I was born in Ferelden,” Leliana said absently, her Orlesian accent thick. She looked up from the flowers. “Alistair will have nothing to fear from Orlais after tonight. Josie and I will make sure of that.”

“I do not find that comforting,” Leo said.

“Is that what you want right now? Comfort?” Leliana stared long and hard at him.

“No,” he answered tersely. “We need to stop Corypheus. Preferably without murdering any Orlesian royals.”

She smiled sweetly then, the coldness gone. “Then we shall see your wish to fruition, my lord.”

He wasn’t sure he believed her.

Leliana nodded toward Karl. “The Inquisitor awaits, my lord.”

Leo could not further question Leliana without drawing unwanted attention, so they followed the Grand Duke and Karl and Josephine up the grand staircase, through the palace, and into the grand ballroom.

The most tense part of the formal introductions was walking up the center dance floor to be viewed by the Empress from her balcony. Easy targets, should the shadows hide an archer bent on killing the Inquisitor.

Everything went as planned, however, and soon Leo left Leliana chatting with Josephine, so he and Karl could walk the halls under the pretense of mingling. They looked for the hidden exits Leliana had told them about, while Karl told him about Gaspard’s accusations against Ambassador Briala, the elf rumored to be Celene’s jilted ex-lover.

The masked nobles did not even bother to whisper behind their fans. The gossip followed Karl and Leo around the upper promenade like slithering snakes racing around their ankles.

“We’re rather notorious, aren’t we?” Karl said, flashing a flirty smile at the dowager, who had joined Leliana and Josephine.

“Hmm,” Leo hummed in agreement. “It’s been rather tame so far. Do you believe the Grand Duke’s claim that the ambassador’s agents are up to mischief?”

“Oh, yes, just as I’m sure he has more soldiers in the palace than those his cousin let in. I’m sure the Empress has a few double-crosses up her sleeve, too. Expect a knife in the back everywhere, Leo. They’ll kill for spite even more quickly than for the land.” Karl bowed to a group of ladies, who tittered behind their fans, eyes wide behind their masques as they watched the Trevelyan brothers pass.

“Let’s tour the guest gardens, shall we?” Karl said, leading Leo out of the ballroom.

From the Grand Ballroom, they passed through the Hall of Heroes, a dim stone hallway full of statues and bronze placards describing grand deeds. Short marble stairways on either end led down to a lower balcony.

“Servants’ quarters,” Karl muttered, inclining his head toward a small door in and shadowy corner on the lower level. “Upper level, two chevaliers guarding the door on the left,” Karl kept his gaze forward as they meandered through the hall. “Gaspard’s office while in residence at the palace, you think?”

“Safe bet,” Leo said.

“Hey, look,” Karl perked up and stooped over, scooping up something from the floor. “A caprice coin!”

Leo chuckled, warm bubbles of amusement filling his chest. In typical Karl fashion, his brother had the fate of an entire _empire_ spinning around him, but he was more excited about small, shiny discoveries, like during their summers at their grandparents’. Even in his apostate-hiding missions, Karl hadn’t wanted for money: No matter how hard their mother had tried to interfere, she never could figure out how to block him from the accounts their Gran had established. And now he had the wealth of the Inquisition and Josephine’s hard-won alliances behind him.

But he loved the gleam of coins. Ever the rogue, Karl pocketed it.

When they entered the guest wing, Karl’s smile turned stiff. Celene’s ladies in waiting were laying in wait for him, standing outside in the guest garden, staring through the window at them. Leo glanced left, into one of the trophy rooms, but there was no exit that way.

“Head’s up,” Leo said. “Gaspard’s uncle is headed this way.”

“You deal with him, and I’ll take care of these ladies,” Karl said with stern determination. “There’s a hot Tevinter mage on the other side of that garden, holding two champagne glasses.”

Leo took another look out the window. Dorian stood beside an empty bench, devoid of company, but standing as regally as Gaspard.

“Sounds good,” Leo said. “See you in the ballroom in twenty minutes. Josephine will skin us if we miss the first dance.”

“Yeah,” Karl said, already striding for the garden door.

Leo turned to greet Duke Germain and flinched when he heard Karl announce loudly to another guest, “Awfully selfish of this Philippe, running off to play and leaving you with all the work.”

The duke, however, was soft-spoken and welcoming. It was easy to butter him up with questions, but he didn’t reveal anything new about Gaspard.

“He was raised a prince. All his life, we told him he would be emperor. It was his destiny. His duty. What else should he do with his life, if not fight for his destiny?”

To avoid answering, Leo looked out the window and took a sip of his champagne—and choked: Karl was climbing the garden trellis behind the garden fountain.

Leo coughed and wiped his mouth with his pocket handkerchief.

_Maker, please don’t let anyone look up right now._

“I say, are you well, my lord?” Duke Germain asked.

“ _Yes!_ ” Leo answered too loudly, and the duke drew his head back in surprise at his abruptness.

“I am perfectly well, thank you, Duke Germain,” Leo said more politely. “Please, do continue. I would love to know more about your family. Perhaps, in exchange, I could share some secrets of our finest horses.”

The duke nodded his approval. “Quite sensible. Much like your grandfather. I must admit I was relieved to learn that you now run his estates, my lord. You’ve a more subtle hand than your father, and a firmer grasp on what leadership entails, if I may say so.”

“You may,” Leo said, and nearly fainted with relief once Karl disappeared from view. As long as he kept his wanderings short; if Karl was found in the Empress’ boudoir or some other embarrassing place, Josephine would strangle them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful friend geekyblackchic for [this gift](http://geekyblackchic.tumblr.com/post/170873534748/a-gift-for-my-good-friend-dafan7711-this-is-leo), a drawing of Leo in his finery!
> 
>  


	29. Wicked Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, SnuggleBonnet, [ MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd), and [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata).
> 
> Content includes canon-typical blood and violence. I’ve also taken some creative liberties with the chronology and specific details of this quest. Enjoy!

Dorian worried.

Karl had disappeared up the garden trellis twelve minutes ago and not been seen since. If anyone else noticed, they might get kicked out of this abysmal party. The ham tasted of despair.

The gossip was mildly interesting, and the political back-stabbing was entirely familiar. Unlike a Tevinter ball, however, there weren’t any sacrificial slaves, nor was there blood magic. There also were no clues as to whether a Venatori agent would strike this evening.

Another group of ladies passed by, sparing him disdainful looks on their way inside. Those lace masques they wore were _supposed_ to let you see how much they despised you. Every upturned nose. Every glare. Every sneering set of lips.

Dorian wrinkled his nose. Other than an overabundance of lavender perfume in their wake, there was nothing extraordinary to report to Karl when he returned.

“When it comes to fragrance, less is more, my dear,” he muttered into his champagne flute and resigned himself to more anxious waiting.

When the warning bell rang for the first dance, Karl had not yet returned. Dorian returned to the grand ballroom, hoping to find him there. He didn’t. But the Spymaster was present—and she looked quite pleased with herself.

Dorian accepted two fresh glasses from a passing servant and handed one to Leliana. “Any word?” he asked.

“Not from your lover,” she said with a sly smile and took a sip of champagne.

At any other time, such phrasing might have made him strut. But here, in this den of vipers, he’d have preferred that no one know the Herald of Andraste “cavorted with an evil magister.” It could hurt Karl.

The final warning bell rang and the orchestra started playing a grand march.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian swore under his breath.

“I’m certain he’s just fashionably late,” Leliana said.

Or hurt. Or trapped. Dorian’s heart pounded. He set his glass down on the tall table behind Leliana. Damn what the court thought. He was going to go looking. And when he found his Amatus, he would never again let him climb balconies without him.

“See?” Leliana said brightly. “I told you . . .” she frowned.

Karl entered the ballroom with a dark-haired woman in a purple ballgown with a skirt almost as broad at Josephine’s. The dress’ intricate designs included black raven feather details. She wore fingerless, black lace gloves, and carried herself with the grace of a shape shifter.

“ _That’s_ Celene’s arcane advisor?” Dorian asked, puzzled. “She certainly doesn’t look like a Circle mage.”

“Morrigan,” Leliana said. “Has she gotten her claws into the Inquisitor already?”

“Ha,” Dorian chuckled. “Even if he were not accustomed to my beauty, I assure you that his head could not be turned. You don’t believe her a Venatori agent, do you?”

“No. But Morrigan always has her own agenda. And she left us on the eve of Denerim. She cannot be trusted.”

“The Battle of Denerim?” Dorian asked, shocked. “She was one of the Hero’s companions?”

“Yes.” Leliana glared at the other woman.

Dorian looked, too, fascinated. The masquerade was suddenly a lot more interesting. “She was your companion at Kinloch Hold, and when you saved Enchanter Connor?”

“Yes.”

“Clearly, she’s a battle mage with darkspawn experience. Do you know why she left?’

“I do,” Leliana’s voice waivered.

_Kaffas._ Had he made the Nightingale cry? Dorian returned his attention to Leliana, but she had her stoic mask in place once more.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You did not abandon Kate; she did. Check the north stairwell, Dorian. I shall check the south.” Leliana strode away.

Although he was not one of Leliana’s agents, Dorian did as she directed. A few guests lingered in the stairwells and garden balconies, gossiping about inane things. Most surrounded the main dance floor, staring at a couple that made Dorian’s stomach churn with discomfort: Karl led Gaspard’s sister in a complicated, flowing waltz.

Karl’s fake smile was as stiff a mask as the masque worn by the Grand Duchess. When they spun past Dorian, the competitive glint in their eyes would have made even Magister Halward pause. The Grand Game was in full swing, and Florianne de Chalons appeared to play the deadly competition as shrewdly as her brother and cousin. In addition to her political machinations, any number of her gown’s gleaming details could be a dagger in disguise.

The sounds of the ballroom fell away as Dorian focused on the dancers, watching for any sudden movement indicating Karl might need his assistance.

He only moved his attention elsewhere when his skin tingled with the approach of another powerful mage. It was Morrigan.

“Well, well, what have we here?” She sashayed to his side, her painted lips quirked with amusement. Her golden eyes shimmered with secrets. Ah, a swamp witch, to use a phrase from the South. She certainly didn’t look or sound like the old crones of famous paintings. The sleek raven-black of her hair was as rich as the low, seductive timber of her voice. “Another Tevinter.”

“Another?” Dorian answered with a pretty smirk of his own. _This_ was news he definitely needed to charm out of the other mage. Their first lead on potential Venatori activity.

“What intentions the Imperium has here I suspect you know far better than I,” she said.

“As a Tevinter?” he asked.

“No.” She turned her gaze to the dance floor. “‘Tis your _association_ with the Inquisitor that makes you privy to such knowledge.”

The witch played just as dirty as the rest of them. Well, he and his _association_ with Karl were none of their business. He would never let them get to Karl through him. He ignored her comment.

“Tell me of this Tevinter,” he said.

“This evening, I found, and killed, an unwelcome guest within these very halls. I would not have slain the man on sight, had he not attacked me first. I do not know what illicit act he planned. Yet I am certain it is of concern to us both.”

“It is,” Dorian agreed.

She scowled, but swiftly reclaimed her calm façade. She was skilled, but clearly had not been raised at court. The Game did not come as naturally to her as it did for him.

“I was told you were more forthcoming, Lord Pavus.”

“That depends on the subject, Lady Morrigan.”

She hummed with amusement. “Very well. Keep your secrets. I shall assume you are in agreement with the Inquisitor and you mean the Empress no harm.”

Dorian doubted Morrigan was ready to trust him so easily. She would find another way to learn the information. Of that he was sure.

The waltz ended. Karl bowed and left the dance floor, meeting Leo and Leliana in a corner by the entrance.

“I must return to my patron,” Morrigan said. “Good evening, Lord Pavus.”

The Empress stood at the opposite railing, applauding the first dance, surrounded by guards and her ladies in waiting. Grand Duchess Florianne joined her, and the royal cousins shared air kisses over each cheek. Morrigan took her place at the Empress’ left hand.

Celene appeared safe enough for the time being, so Dorian joined Karl. He wasn’t going to let him get more than an arm’s length away for the rest of the evening.

“Dorian,” Karl gave him a small smile and a quick squeeze of his gloved hand before turning back to Leliana.

_Here_. Here at Karl’s side was his place.

“Morrigan gave me a key to the servants’ wing,” Karl said. “Elven servants are whispering about missing staff members. Florianne says Gaspard’s mercenary captain is in the royal wing, with plans to strike tonight.”

“I’ll keep everyone’s eyes on the dance floor,” Leo immediately offered. “At least half of them have been calling me ‘Inquisitor’ already. Just be swift and raise a ruckus if you need backup.”

“Thank you,” Karl said. “Leliana, have Cassandra and Cullen ready our troops, in case this goes south. I assume you’ve had someone shadowing me all night?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Fine,” Karl said. “Let them continue.”

Dorian didn’t care how many agents the Nightingale assigned. No one was as motivated as he to see Karl through this safely.

Karl tugged on Dorian’s sleeve. “Let’s go.”

Dorian followed him into the shadows of the Hall of Heroes. “Just the two of us, Amatus?” he quipped. “How romantic.”

“Heh.” Karl locked the servants’ door behind them. “I still owe you that moonlight swim you didn’t get at Crestwood.”

_Brilliant. It’s so warm here, I thought I’d go for a moonlight swim in the nude._

“You remember that?” Love filled his chest like a chunk of unspun wool, too big and rough to fit. Of course his Amatus would remember that.

“Sorry I can’t offer that to you tonight. But I’ll make it up to you.” Karl came to an abrupt stop. “Shit.”

On the hall floor lay a dead servant: a young elven woman with her throat slit. To the right was an open door leading to the sleeping quarters. The end of the nearest bed was visible, along with the bottom of a blood-soaked skirt.

“Shit,” Karl said again, and went to check the bodies, careful not to drag his silk sleeves through the blood. “Dead at least an hour,” he sighed. “Fucking brutal. This was their _home_.”

Dorian had no words. He gave Karl’s shoulder a supportive squeeze and followed him onward.

The way forward was through a small servants’ kitchen lit by a dim fire in the stone hearth. Sacks of potatoes and barrels of vegetables lined one wall, with meats and fruits hanging above. A waist-high work table took up most of the room.

“This way,” Karl gestured toward a side door into the gardens.

“A moment.” Dorian heard the faint ringing of an old magical object. While fairly common in Tevinter kitchens, he was surprised to hear one here. The sound was strongest in the center of the room. Set atop the equipment rack above the table was a stone statue about the size of a jewelry box: A horned halla on top of a rectangle. He retrieved it easily with a summoning charm.

“A simple household object,” he said, handing it to Karl. “Not particularly powerful, but it’s been enchanted for a purpose. Perhaps warding off spirits? I don’t know what other use servants would have for it.”

“Makes my hand hum,” Karl said. “Could it be a key? Like the stone we put together at Redcliffe?”

“Of course,” Dorian beamed at him. “The magic within it _does_ sound like a key stone. I’ve never seen a piece this large before, but it makes sense. Could be as much for show as it is security.”

Karl stared down at the halla statue in his hand. “In the gardens, there are blue doors with similar halla carvings over the lintels. I bet this is a key for those kind of doors.”

“You didn’t find any stone halla in your earlier wanderings?”

“Oh, there might have been some, but I just picked all the locks I came across.” Karl took an empty sack from the table and slipped the statue inside. “Let’s hang on to this, just in case.”

In the lower gardens, the only sounds were the flow of a decorative fountain and a breeze through the ivy-covered arbors.

At the fountain, they found another body, this one very well dressed. It was an Orlesian man, with his masque askew and a gaudy dress dagger sticking out of his chest.

“Well, crap,” Karl squatted down beside the body, careful not to get his silk coattails too close to the bloody ground. “An emissary from the Council of Heralds. I met one in the guest wing earlier tonight, said his friend was off dallying with an elf servant. Guess Philippe was getting murdered instead. The other one said Gaspard had been threatening them. Maybe this is an example of the consequences, for the others to see?”

The insignia on the handle caught Dorian’s attention. “Is that the Chalons family crest? Is Gaspard that sloppy—or does someone want us to think so?”

“He’s not the only heir here tonight.”

“Florianne?” Dorian pondered that. “Yes, she very well could be sabotaging both sides.”

A terrified shriek rose from the opposite end of the garden, as another young elven woman sprinted toward them. A swift hooded figure in white ran after her; they threw a knife into her back and she hit the ground, silenced. The assailant in the hood was accompanied by other well-armed fighters in Venatori armor.

“Damn it!” Karl reached for his belt, but his beautiful ballroom attire had left no room for his grappling chain. “Damn it!”

Enraged, Dorian stepped in front of him, throwing chain lighting with one hand and a frost spell with the other. The shocked invaders bellowed in pain for only a brief moment, until his second ice spell froze them solid. With a growl, he threw his hands up with more lightning, shattering the frozen corpses.

“Idiots,” Dorian growled. “That girl didn’t have to die. None of us do.”

Karl lay a gentle hand on Dorian’s arm. Dorian unclenched his jaw and took a few calming breaths, until the angry drumming of his heart calmed.

He covered Karl’s bare, warm hand with his own. “Come, Amatus, let us be sure there are no more in the guest apartments.”

On the ground floor, several Venatori foot soldiers and enchanters patrolled the lavish dining room and guest parlor.

With a wordless battle cry, Karl flung the sack-covered halla statue at the enchanter in front of the fireplace, soundly hitting him in the head and knocking him to the ground. Boot knife in hand, Karl leapt over the table to engage the nearest foot soldier while Dorian froze the mage and dispelled all the glyph traps from the marble floor.

The confined space was full of flammable objects, and Dorian didn’t very well want to set a fire that would race through the palace. He concentrated on precise horror spells that froze opponents when he could and ice when he needed something more physical. He tried to focus those as far away from Karl and himself as he could: Ice shards could be a danger to friend as well as foe, should anything shatter in the small room.

A staff would have been useful, for ease of casting as well as close-quarters defense, but the only one within reach had shattered when he’d frozen the Venatori enchanter.

Karl downed one agent with his boot knife, smashed another into the floor with a dining room chair, and quickly dispatched the last horror-spell-stricken soldier with the enemy’s own short sword.

Panting, Karl spun in a circle, looking for more Venatori, before relaxing his battle stance. He looked down at his blood-soaked jacket and shirt. “Damn. Josephine’s going to be pissed.”

Dorian chuckled. “Considering the number of people we kill every day, I doubt the lady will be surprised.” It was an easy quip, when the blood was from asinine zealots trying to destroy the world, instead of serving girls slaughtered for no reason other than their station and the shitty luck of being in the wrong place on the wrong night.

Running feet pounded above stairs and they braced themselves for more Venatori.

A surprised cry echoed down the stairwell. A body in a Venatori scout uniform tumbled down the marble steps into the dining room, a throwing dagger protruding from the eye.

Dorian wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Nice shot,” Karl said. “But I doubt that’s Leo.”

Silent as an empty night, elegant as a lady in waiting, an elf woman descended the stairs, step by graceful step, drawing her bare hand lazily along the gaudy gold wallpaper. Her bare feet were half-wrapped with white strips of fabric that ran up her ankles, under her green skirt. The simple dress may not have been a ball gown, but it was of expensive make, and her masque was as fine as anyone’s in the palace. She paused at the bottom of the stairs.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan.” Her Orlesian accent was just as thick as Celene’s. Her voice was deeper, stronger. Earthier. Her smooth skin was darker and freckled.

Karl responded with a polite half-bow, but still held his boot knife and the Venatori’s short sword. “Ambassador Briala, I presume.”

“Indeed,” she said. “So . . . The Council of Heralds’ emissary in the courtyard . . . that’s not your work, is it?”

“No.” Karl still did not set his weapons aside. “The murdered ambassadors in the upper library: Your doing?”

She smirked. “Such stories, Inquisitor. How much sherry have you enjoyed this evening? Then again,” she gestured toward the dead Venatori behind them, “Your reputation for getting results is well deserved. You cleaned this place out. It will take a month to get all the Tevinter blood off the marble.” She eyed Dorian coyly.

He held his tongue. Yes, Tevinter blood on an Orlesian floor. Put there by an infamous Marcher and himself. Not the finest moment for his homeland. It wasn’t the finest moment for anyone at the palace tonight, but he wasn’t petty enough to voice that.

“I came down to save or avenge my missing people,” she said, “but you’ve beaten me to it.”

“We can help you evacuate the rest,” Karl said.

She laughed. “And reveal their identities? Or would you round up every elf you saw, just in case?”

“We wouldn’t do that,” Dorian said, finally letting his irritation show.

“Hmm,” she said, but otherwise ignored him. “Inquisitor, you might just be an ally worth having. What could you do with an army of elven spies at your disposal?”

“An interesting offer, Ambassador.” But Karl knew the Game as well as any of the rest of them and did not offer anything more.

“I know which way the wind is blowing,” she said. “I’d bet coin that you’ll be part of the peace talks before the night is over. And if you happen to lean a little bit our way?” She smiled. “It could prove advantageous to us both.” She left through the nearest archway, her half-bare feet making no sound and leaving no print.

“There is so much conniving and backstabbing here, it makes me homesick.” Dorian joked out of habit. All in all, it was a depressing evening, when they should have been dancing and enjoying the canapés.

“Are you all right?” Karl asked, with the same concerned frown he’d worn when Dorian had told him about his father’s blood ritual.

“No,” Dorian said, and Karl’s frown deepened. “But I will be.” He leaned forward and left a soft kiss at the corner of Karl’s lips.

They quickly canvassed the upper level, barely glancing at the Venatori corpses Briala had left where they’d fallen.

“Hey, it’s one of those halla doors,” Karl said, pointing into a bedroom. “Hang on.” He ran downstairs, retrieved the sack containing the kitchen halla, and set the statue on a ledge by the door. With a hiss and click, the door sprung open.

“Ah ha!” Karl grinned and went inside. “Loot room. Looks like it’s mostly old jewelry only used on special—hold on.” He lifted a small silver locket. “A bit simple for an Empress, don’t you think?” He handed it to Dorian.

Plain but pretty, the metal was cool against his palm. “I’ve seen these before, worn by elves in wealthy households. It’s elven, not Tevinter.” He handed the locket back to Karl.

“Elven? You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Everything else here clearly belongs to the royal family,” Karl said, pocketing the locket. “I suspect this is Briala’s, gifted to Celene when they were lovers.”

“Foolish of her to keep it,” Dorian said. “Scandalous. Perhaps you could use it to gain Celene’s cooperation? Gain official sanction for your agents in her Empire.”

Karl grinned. “Dorian, did you just suggest I blackmail Orlais’ monarch?”

Dorian shrugged elegantly. “Do as you will, Amatus.”

Karl chuckled. On their way out, he closed the blue door and put the halla statue back in the sack. The lock clicked shut again.

The gardens were eerily quiet, as were the servants’ hallways that connected the guest wing with the royal quarters.

Disquiet skittered across Dorian’s shoulders and he again wished he had a staff. “I hope the servants fled. None deserve the fate of the girl in the garden.”

“Maybe Briala evacuated everyone,” Karl suggested. “Though she seemed more interested in accomplishing her mission, whatever that may be.”

Dorian checked behind them for movement. Nothing. “Let us hope the ambassador’s heart has room for those who aren’t her own agents.”

A woman’s terrified scream startled them both. Karl threw open the bedroom door at the end of the hall and dodged a throwing knife.

A Venatori rogue loomed over an elven girl who cowered on the floor. Before the Venatori could throw another knife, Dorian hit her with an ice spell full in the chest, knocking her through the open window. The sound of shattering ice echoed up from the courtyard below.

Karl leaned over the windowsill to look. A brief look of disgust flashed across his face. “Dead,” he said, and turned his attention to the frightened elf on the floor.

She scrambled backward on her hands and bare feet, eyes wide, shaking her head. Her lips moved in a mute plea for mercy.

“Dorian, the door,” Karl said, squatting down where he was, instead of approaching the panicked girl.

Dorian went to stand guard, watching the halls for more Venatori activity.

“We won’t hurt you,” Karl said, rich voice low, kind, and strong. The voice of a hero from a fairytale book. “We’re here to help.”

“Inquisitor!” the elf girl squeaked, her Orlesian accent as thick as the deadly plot they investigated. “Thank you, thank you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Belle,” my lord.

“Belle.” Dorian could hear the smile in Karl’s voice and envision it even as he looked elsewhere. It was the smile that let you know everything was all right. That he would take care of you.

Dorian swallowed back unexpected tears, heart full to bursting. If Lady Morrigan could see him, she’d probably laugh at his sentimentality.

Nothing had gone right this evening. The blood on Karl’s jacket and sweat under Dorian’s fine robes was evidence of that. Corypheus was one assassination away from ensuring utter chaos in the South, opening a path for his demon army. They very well might be on the march from Adamant already.

No. Dorian wouldn’t let the bastard set his homeland back a thousand years. He would fight the blighted Magister with every breath he had left. Right now, that meant guarding Karl’s back while he got intelligence out of the servant.

The girl gave a watery hiccup. “No one’s supposed to be here . . . Briala said . . . I shouldn’t have trusted her.”

“Briala told you to come to this wing of the palace?” Karl asked.

“Not personally,” her voiced hardened. “The _Ambassador_ can’t be seen talking to the servants. We get coded messages at certain locations. Briala has been watching the Grand Duke all night. No surprise she wanted someone to search his sister’s old room. Renovations have the royal family in the guest wing. Stone masons are here during the day, but no one should have been here at this hour.”

She took a shuddering breath. “I should have known it was a set up. The orders didn’t say what to look for.”

Perhaps. But was the trap set by Briala for her own loose end, or were the Venatori funneling the servants through one by one, like lambs to slaughter? No one left alive would be willing to tell them.

The silence in the hallways grew into a nervous ringing in Dorian’s ears.

“Maybe you surprised the intruder as much as they surprised you,” Karl said. “Why would Briala want to kill you, Belle?”

“I knew her. Before. When she was Celene’s _pet_.” The elf’s derision was clear. “Now she wants to play revolution. But I remember. She was sleeping with the Empress who purged our alienage!”

 “Would you be willing to testify to that, if I asked?”

“Absolutely, Inquisitor. If you will protect me, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

They joined Dorian at the door. The trembling elf girl clung to Karl’s side, her arms around his waist, despite his blood-soaked jacket. She was pale under her mousy brown hair, but there was no longer a panicked sheen over her eyes.

To Dorian’s utter surprise, Karl whistled a four-tone trill, like a Fereldan forest bird, and another elf stepped from the shadows and bowed low. The girl in Karl’s arms gasped.

Like any other palace servant, the newcomer was dressed in a simple brown tunic and leggings. The fabrics were of a wealthier make than those worn in the houses of lesser nobles, but there was no mistaking them for anything other than a servant’s clothes. His shining gold hair was short, well-trimmed, and crested up to a point in the front. He was clean-shaven and no hood hid the sleek lines of his pale, pointed ears.

Dorian didn’t recognize him, but there was something familiar about the smooth way he moved.

“Mahon, this is Belle,” Karl said.

Ah, the agent Karl had sent to make sure the Loyalist messenger got lost back in Val Royeaux.

“She is under my protection. Please see to it that she has a safe place to hide tonight. Do not leave her side until I relieve you in the morning.”

“Tomorrow?!” The girl looked up at him, clutching at his jacket.

“You’ll be as safe with Mahon as I was,” Karl assured her.

“My orders are to keep you alive, my lord.” The other elf said, his clear Marcher accent as distinct as Karl’s.

Karl raised an eyebrow. “And the Nightingale’s orders supersede the Inquisitor’s?”

“My orders also mandate that I complete whatever tasks you request, my lord.” The elf’s crooked, close-lipped smile was an enticing blend of cheeky and helpful. Like any good agent, he knew his charms and how to ply them.

“It’s going to be okay, Belle.” Karl gently extricated himself from her grasp and turned her toward Mahon. She stood frozen, staring at the other elf, who slowly got down on one knee and outstretched his hand, his expression neutral.

“Belle,” he suddenly had a perfect Orlesian accent, “Je vous le promets, nous survivrons la nuit.”

She grabbed his hand and averted her eyes.

The agent spirited her away through the shadows.

“That’s a relief,” Dorian said, breathing easier once the only lives he had to worry about were his own and Karl’s. “Now you have the locket and a witness, though I don’t know that an elven servant girl’s testimony will be heard by the Empress’s Court.”

“Briala’s agents are elves, Dorian. Many who lost their families in Celene’s fires. They’d believe Belle, and Briala wouldn’t escape their wrath. She’d have no one to help her with her revolution. I have the winning hand in this game. From now on, she’ll help us, instead of drawing out Celene and Gaspard’s war.”

Karl shook his head and led the way down the hall. “What was Briala thinking? That Gaspard and Celene would kill each other—and then what? Whoever took over next wouldn’t blame the elves? I can’t see Florianne being any more merciful—”

“Hello? Is anyone there? Somebody? Anybody?” An Orlesian man’s voice was muffled by another bedroom door.

Karl paused and assessed the door. “This is . . . the Empress’s bedroom.”

Dorian chuckled. “I knew we were going to get into trouble eventually. Would you care to open it?”

The halla statue Karl carried did the trick and they found themselves in Empress Celene’s boudoir. A soldier was shackled, spread-eagle on the bed—wearing nothing but his plumed helmet.

Dorian laughed, “Oh, Orlesians.”

“It’s not what it looks like!” The young man struggled against his bonds, his impressive muscles rippling under his fair, bare skin. Dorian did him the courtesy of keeping his eyes on his face, instead of his other attributes.

“Honestly, I would have preferred it if it were what it looks like. The Empress led me to believe I would be . . . rewarded for betraying the Grand Duke. This was not what I hoped for.”

Karl raised an eyebrow. “I can imagine what you thought your reward would be.”

“Please, I beg you, don’t tell Gaspard!” The naked man thrashed back and forth with no further success. “The Empress beguiled me! She knows everything! The Duke’s surprise attack has been countered before it even began. The moment he strikes, she’ll have him arrested for treason.”

“I’ll protect you from Gaspard if you’re willing to testify about Celene’s trap,” Karl said.

“I’ll do anything! Anything!”

“Anything?” Dorian asked with a saucy smile.

The soldier stilled. He glanced between Karl and Dorian, licking his lips nervously.

Karl scoffed. “Your testimony will be sufficient,” he said, bending down to pry the shackles open.

Dorian picked up the soldier’s clothes from the armchair in front of the fire and tossed them to him.

“Merci,” the young man turned away and dressed hurriedly.

“Your, um, _sword_ ,” Dorian handed him sheathed weapon, still attached to his belt. The soldier blushed and strapped it on.

“Think you can sneak out the servant’s entrance?” Karl asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Meet me tomorrow at the silk merchant’s estate and I will see you provided for.”

“Yes, my lord.” The soldier bowed and hurried from the room.

“What a charming young man,” Dorian said, grateful that their latest encounter hadn’t required more bloodshed.

“You were checking out his arse,” Karl chuckled.

“Me? I was enjoying the view of your clothed behind, actually, Inquisitor.”

“Hmm,” Karl said, with an appreciative glance that made Dorian shiver, despite the crackling fire in the hearth.

“Think we can find that mercenary captain?” Karl asked. “This guy’s talk of troop movements makes me think Florianne wasn’t completely lying.”

“I suppose saving the world needs to come before more dancing.” Dorian opened the door and bowed him through. “After you, Amatus. Let us hope the mercenary is inclined to parley instead of trying to kill us on sight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you’d like a sneak peek at an upcoming chapter, new beta readers are welcome, no experience required: [Contact info](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/profile).


	30. The Saved and the Lost (Bloody Accord)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [Tessa1972](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessa1972/gifts), [MyrddinDerwydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd/works), [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata/works), and [SnuggleBonnet](https://snugglebonnet.tumblr.com/). Thanks to SnuggleBonnet and [cheercaptainofyourheart](http://cheercaptainofyourheart.tumblr.com/) for feedback on title screen options.
> 
> Content includes canon-typical blood, gore, and violence.
> 
>  

Karl’s blood-soaked shirt stuck to his skin, but he wasn’t about to set his weapons aside to undress—or run around the palace without a shirt and jacket. He tried to ignore the gross squelch of the fabric against his chest as he moved. When they got out of the palace, he was going to sit in the bathtub for a week.

As silent as a rogue, Dorian followed him closely, carrying the sack containing the stone halla. The hall was dim, chilly, and full of scaffolding.

“You painted Orlesian assholes!” An angry Fereldan man shouted from outside. “When I get out of this, I’ll butcher you like the pigs you are!”

Karl paused and listened at the door to the gardens. Dorian set the sack down, ready to fight with both hands even though he had no staff. The next time they went to a party, Karl would insist he wear one, propriety be damned.

A sizzling crack echoed against the stone walls and an unpleasant itch flashed across Karl’s Marked palm. Someone was trying to open a rift.

He eased the door open just enough to sneak through sideways and they slipped into the shadows of the garden.

Cheeks red with rage, a pale man sat on the ground, his arms tied to a post behind him. Dark stubble covered his scalp and chin, and he wore a worn leather mercenary coat. He thrashed about, kicking his heels against the ground, but he wasn’t able to get leverage to stand.

He was surrounded by a squad of Venatori soldiers.

In front stood an Enchanter in full robes and mask. In the air beside him, an amulet hovered in a growing crack to the Fade.

Grand Duchess Florianne observed the garden from an upper balcony. “Give me five minutes to kill Celene. Then release the demons into the ballroom.”

So _that’s_ why she hadn’t made her move yet. Assassinating Celene wouldn’t be enough. Everyone in the palace would need to be captured or killed. It was an ambitious plan. Celene, Gaspard, the entire Council of Heralds; all her enemies under one roof. The rest of the Empire would have no choice but to bow under the weight of the victor’s power—or scatter to the four winds. But there was nowhere in the world to run, if Corypheus should tear down the Veil.

Karl caught Dorian’s eye and nodded toward the Enchanter. Dorian nodded and crept forward while Karl slunk around toward the prisoner.

“Tell your brother he can get stuffed!” the mercenary cried out.

“You think I work for Gaspard?” the duchess laughed. “Gaspard hasn’t the vision for a plan such as this. I will relish the look on his face when he realizes I’ve outplayed him. He always was a sore loser.”

Still undetected, Karl had reached the hedge row behind the mercenary.

The duchess smiled down at the bound man. “In their darkest dreams, no one imagines I would assassinate Celene myself.”

_Fwwt!_ Dorian sent a spear of ice speeding through the air, straight into the Venatori Enchanter’s back. The blood-soaked tip protruded from his chest.

“Maker bless me!” the Mercenary flinched backward.

The Enchanter released a strangled grunt, his eyes wide and glassy as blood dribbled from the corner of his lips. He crumbled to the ground in a heap, his departure sending the amulet spinning.

The rift grew. A sharp pain ran through Karl’s palm, and he bit his lip, waiting.

The soldiers spun toward Dorian, who boldly stepped from the shadows.

Karl dashed forward, cut the mercenary’s bonds, and shoved him toward the cover of the low wall behind the shrubs.

“Actually, Your Grace,” with a casual flick of the wrist, Dorian cast a barrier over himself, “You’ve been tied with your brother as the prime suspect all evening. You’re not half as clever as you think.”

Karl lunged for the nearest Venatori archer, getting him with a lethal blow to the back before he could shoot.

Then it was mayhem. Dorian’s spells flew. Karl fought with growing desperation as the rift grew and demon screams erupted from it. It was almost big enough to let them through. His hand shook with the effort to keep hold of his blade as stinging Fade magic fizzled out of his palm, a poisonous green orb of light spinning around his hand.

The mercenary captain leapt back over the garden wall, picked up a fallen Venatori’s sword, and parried a blow meant for Karl’s neck. “If you’re the Herald of Andraste, close that blighted thing!”

Momentarily shielded from the Venatori, Karl dropped his dagger and reached toward the rift.

_Come on, come on!_

The rift’s magic danced away from his palm, teasing, not connecting as it usually did. Panic gripped Karl’s chest.

“Dorian! The amulet!”

Dorian flung a fireball into the growing rift, knocking the amulet into the Fade. The rift latched onto Karl’s hand, and he stumbled, shoulder burning with the effort to keep his arm up. He clenched his fist and _pulled_ , willing the rift shut with a snap.

His fingers tingled, but were steady enough to fight, so he scooped up his dagger and jumped back into the fray.

“Florianne’s gone for the Empress!” Dorian shouted, shoving the last line of Venatori aside with a wall of fire. The soldiers fell, their screams cut short by the roaring flames.

“This way!” the mercenary gestured toward a side door. “A shortcut to the ballroom.”

Karl and Dorian sped after him.

“You’re Fereldan?” Karl asked as they ran.

“Yeah, poncy cheesemonger couldn’t get enough fancy chevaliers. Gaspard had to pay me and my men triple our usual pay to come to Orlais.”

“And you thought nothing of attacking an Empress in her own palace?” Dorian asked.

The mercenary scoffed. “The throne changes hands more often than a whore changes beds. The only difference is whether you’re the one paid or the one who ends up dead. I had planned to be on the money end of things.”

He stopped short in the next doorway. “Andraste’s tits! More cultists.”

“Go!” Dorian flung flames forward into the room. It was a small chapel with polished wood benches that caught fire as quickly as dry paper. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Karl grabbed the mercenary by the arm and sped for the opposite door, racing onward while his heart screamed for him to stay and make a stand with Dorian. No, he could handle—

With the whoosh of a Fade Step, Dorian was suddenly running at his side.

“Never a dull moment for Southerners, is there?” he quipped, panting heavily. Sweat streamed down his gorgeous bronze cheek. His white robes were sullied with thick soot.

They ran past another treasure room, where a Venatori squad lay in wait in the shadows. Dorian froze them before they had a chance to pounce, leaving Karl with a clear shot through a servant’s entry into the ballroom.

He burst through, startling lords and ladies who jumped back with cries of dismay.

On the far side of the ballroom stood the Empress, conversing with her ladies in waiting while Morrigan stood in her shadow and Grand Duke Gaspard waited impatiently for his cousin to acknowledge him.

His sister sashayed toward the Empress. Just another two steps and they would fail in their mission to keep Celene safe.

“Florianne!” Karl bellowed, pointing his weapons in her direction, drawing Morrigan and Gaspard’s attention.

Quick as a snake, Florianne lunged for Celene, dagger gleaming in the candlelight.

With one hand, Morrigan threw a barrier over the Empress; with the other, she thrust a spell straight into the chest of the Duchess. At the same time, Gaspard caught Florianne’s armed hand and twisted her wrist inward, so she fell on her own blade.

“Gaspard?” Florianne’s shocked exclamation echoed around the stunned ballroom. She raised a hand to his cheek, her second word a weak plea. “Gaspard?” As she fell, she pulled his masque from his face.

He looked down at the body of his sister, deathly stoic himself.

All the doors burst open and Venatori soldiers swarmed in. Screams rose from the dance floor, but at least half the men were wearing dress swords they quickly unsheathed, and at least half the ladies pulled daggers from their sleeves or belts. When it came to The Grand Game, “Deadly dance” wasn’t a metaphor.

Inquisition soldiers ran in from the balconies to join the fray, one of them tossing Leliana a bow and quiver on his way past. Another gave Leo a longsword to compliment his boot knife. Other than the handful of soldiers that had been attending to Celene all evening, no Imperial guards joined the fight. Karl hoped some still lived, and the noise of the fight would draw them in.

The battle was swift and decisive. Dorian and Morrigan froze the Venatori Enchanters. The armed partygoers joined the Inquisition soldiers on the main promenade, and Josephine ushered the Dowager behind the shelter of a potted tree, summoning guards to stand in her defense. The final intruder was cut down and the ballroom fell into tense silence.

Blood ran from the promenade, dripped through the spindles of the railing onto the dance floor.

Karl’s stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to rip off his disgusting jacket and shirt and go jump in the garden fountain. Instead, he turned to the Empress and her surviving cousin.

“Your Imperial Majesty, Your Grace, I think we should speak in private. Elsewhere.”

Celene hesitated, chin high, then swept out onto her private balcony, Morrigan at her side.

Gaspard spared a quick glance at the crumpled body of his sister, his pale, naked face revealing no spark of recognition or feeling. Earlier in the evening, his wit, irritation, and lust to win had been evident in every word and look. All that was gone when he strode out after the Empress.

Karl blinked away another red-tinted image: Leo and Lace broken at the feet of a terror demon.

“Karl,” Leo fell into step at Karl’s side, his jacket just as ruined. “Any of that blood yours?”

“No,” Karl swallowed thickly. “You?”

“Not a scratch.”

“Good.” It was all he could manage.

He schooled his face into a cold, presiding-at-court expression and stepped onto the balcony.

Ambassador Briala was there, the wraps on her feet still white as fresh snow, nary a drop of blood on her person. “Your sister attempted regicide in front of the entire court, Gaspard,” she sneered.

“I knew nothing of Florianne’s plans! But you knew it all and did nothing.”

“Enough!” the Empress said. “We will not bicker while Tevinter plots against our nation. For the safety of the Empire, I will have answers.”

“You’re all to blame,” Karl strode forward. “Briala sabotaged you both, Gaspard brought foreign mercenaries into the palace, and Celene—”

“You will address us—” Celene protested.

“However I please,” Karl said, uncaring for how she glowered. “You endangered everyone here tonight, and the security of your nation with your trap for the Grand Duke. I have witnesses, and they’ve already been moved to secure locations. I also have the might of the Inquisition.” He eyed them all boldly.

“ _I_ am the Herald of Andraste.”

As bitterly as he hated the title, he managed to declare it without showing his distaste for it.

The fancy posturing was over. This was how The Game was played behind closed doors: Move straight in for the jugular. Even as a spare, Karl had known it his whole life. His mother could have given the Empress lessons in how to make a stronger play.

“Briala,” Karl reached into his pocket and pulled out the elven locket. “I’ll ignore the dead ambassadors, but I’m keeping this.”

She gasped and shrieked at Celene, “You kept it? What were you thinking?!”

“An elven lover?” Gaspard chuckled. “The same elf whose spies murder our Orlesian soldiers. You’ll be ruined, cousin.”

“No,” Karl stuck the locket back in his pocket. “The Council won’t care. But Briala’s life is forfeit if her fellow revolutionaries learn she was sleeping with the empress who purged the alienage.”

All three of them shifted uncomfortably.

“What do you want, Inquisitor?” Briala asked.

“Your network is now an arm of the Inquisition. You directly report to the Nightingale.” He took no joy in the announcement, but it didn’t bother him either. It was a necessary move.

She stared at him for several seconds, but she had no choice. If Karl made the truth public and she ran, her former agents would hunt her down within a week.

“My people are honored to ally with the Inquisition.”

Gerard harrumphed. “That is what I would have said before this evening turned foul.”

Karl smirked, “Oh, but we are going to be good friends, my lord, as long as you and your cousin work together for Orlais, instead of ripping it apart. This Tevinter cult plans to destroy the Veil and cover the world in death. Surely we can be united against that.”

“United?” The Empress glared. “You would demand changes to our cabinet? That we give the usurper a seat?”

Karl stood his ground. “A seat you stole out from underneath him, Your Majesty. Many of the _faithful_ have not forgiven you for that.”

“Who are we to question the Herald of Andraste?” Gaspard asked, a hint of humor lilting into his gravely Orlesian accent. “Cousin, come, let us be heroes together. Enough blood has been spilt.”

Celene huffed but relented. “Then we have an accord: Our cousin Gaspard will now hold a place of honor in our cabinet.” She turned toward the ballroom, giving them all her back. “There is one stipulation, Inquisitor.”

“And what is your request, Your Majesty?” Stipulation his ass; he had her over a barrel and she knew it.

“Lady Morrigan shall join the Inquisition as Liaison from the Imperial court.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Karl reined in his glee. Leliana may have had her doubts, but Morrigan would be a powerful asset—one not limited by the Circle’s harsh teachings.

“Welcome to the Inquisition, Morrigan.”

“A most gracious response,” Morrigan replied, gold eyes brimming with untold secrets.

“The war is over,” the Empress said stiffly. “We must address the nobility.”

Gaspard took his place at her side. “We make the cut swift and clean. Kindest to all of us.”

Nothing about tonight had been kind.

Karl handed his weapons off to Leo and followed the Empress and Grand Duke back into the ballroom, ready to give the court full view of the fearsome, blood-covered Inquisitor who had secured peace for Orlais.

-

Leo wanted a bath and to sleep for a week—after sending Lace a raven to let her know he’d survived the fete.

Instead, he stood by Ambassador Briala in the shadows while the Empress, Grand Duke, and Karl addressed the court. Shocked gasps rose from the crowd when Celene announced Gaspard’s new appointment. Karl’s short speech was more stern than stirring, which was just the right tone for keeping the court in line. Within minutes, the Empress swept out and everyone could leave, trailing bloody footprints along the way.

As soon as the speeches were over, Leo, Karl, and Dorian followed Josephine into the royal guest wing. She had secured a large bathing room where three tubs were filled with steaming fresh water by human servants, who also carried away their ruined clothes.

In exhausted silence, they quickly scrubbed down and dressed. Dorian didn’t even object to the plain clothes provided as replacements for their ruined formal wear. Leo dozed off during the carriage ride back to the estate of the silk merchant.

They caught a few hours in real beds and were up at dawn, their entire war party mobilized and on the move within an hour. Unlike the violent bloodbath at the palace, not a single flower of their hostess’ gardens was trampled when they left.

Leo absently kissed Pepper’s velvety nose and rode for the Western Approach with them.

“Hey, Leo, you okay?” Karl rode up beside him mid-morning. “You look distracted.”

“I’m not really thinking anything,” Leo said. “I’m hollow inside. Last night was long. This whole journey has been long, but I can keep going.”

The next few days were long, too, but they encountered no resistance, not even from bandits. Swift riders had gone ahead, heralding the news that the war was over and Orlais united again, with the support of the Inquisition in the Herald’s holy endeavor. From pre-dawn to just after dusk, the Inquisitor’s company rode a steady pace, only stopping to rest and water their horses.

Each night, Leo retired to his tent alone. If he dreamed, he could not remember.

The lush greens of Orlais’ central region gradually turned into scraggly trees and rocky ground, the sands of the Western Approach visible in the distance.

There, in the shade under the last trees this side of the desert, was a vast encampment.

A spark of interest lit in Leo’s chest, the first hope he’d held in days.

And then he saw her, standing between two towering, burly, dark-haired men. A Champion and a Warden.

Joy burst forth within him and he spurred his horse to run ahead, zipping past Cassandra and Leliana. Ace whinnied and made to follow, but Karl reined him in, laughing. Leo didn’t care. Let the entire Inquisition laugh. Let the whole world laugh.

He rode right up to the welcoming party and jumped off, leaving Pepper prancing with excitement over the sudden change of pace.

Lace was smiling up at him.

He swept her into his arms in a fierce kiss.

The Champion gave a loud whoop and applauded.

“I’ve missed you,” Lace whispered against Leo’s cheek, and all was right again with the world.

-

Leo rode up front with Lace. The long days were short in her company, and the time they shared in their small, private tent—within arm’s reach of a dozen other tents—were even shorter.

But it was the happiest time of his life, traveling with Lace and Karl and Dorian toward an uncertain fate.

They’d been in the desert for days when Warden Carver and his brother broke from the group to rendezvous with Carver’s superior, inviting Karl, Leo, Lace, and Dorian to accompany them. Progress was slow over ever-shifting sand and relentless rock outcroppings.

“Is Warden Stroud like Varric wrote him?” Leo asked as they rode. He’d re-read the sections on the Kirkwall riots and Grey Wardens the night before, hunched over a dim candle stub by his bedroll long after Lace had fallen asleep. Now that he knew some of their voices, had spoken with them—Garrett, Carver, Varric—he could _hear_ them in the story and it gave him shivers all anew. They had lost and hurt more than he could fathom, just like Karl had.

“Pretty much,” Carver grinned. “‘Ser Serious’ is what fresh recruits call him. But he’s the most fair man I’ve ever met, and they all respect him.” He frowned. “Or, at least they used to.”

To that, Leo had no encouraging reply.

The scorching sun was high in the sky when they reached a long series of rough ledges and tunnels that ran eastward as far as the eye could see. The outer edges of the rocky outcropping had been worn into smooth curves by sand storms.

Carver stopped his horse, frowning. “I don’t feel the taint anywhere nearby.”

Leo’s spine tingled and he looked over his shoulder. Had the plan gone to shit already?

“Maybe he’s gone to forage for supplies,” Garrett offered. Carver raised a skeptical eyebrow and Garrett said, “I don’t sense any mages in the area.”

“Nor I,” Dorian said. He glanced at Karl, who lifted his Marked hand and shook his head.

Without dismounting, Lace pulled her bow from its harness on her saddle and swiftly strung it. Maker, did she have gorgeous balance.

“I don’t see evidence of anyone in the area,” she said. “But I doubt a trail would last more than a few minutes in this terrain.”

Karl gestured for Carver to go on ahead. “Lead on, Warden Hawke.”

“I can see it from here,” Carver pointed ahead and nudged his mount back to a walk.

When they arrived, the sun had moved past the apex of the outcropping, leaving the cave mouth in shadow. Carver leaned forward in the saddle.

“No,” he said softly, the single syllable launching Leo’s heart into a deafening rhythm. Things _had_ gone to shit.

“Nonono.” Carver leapt off and ran inside.

“Carver! Don’t!” Garrett called after him, hurrying to dismount and follow.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Dorian swore in Tevene and threw a barrier over them as they ran off.

The rest of them dismounted and followed, drawing their weapons as they went.

Then Leo saw it: A trail of bloody footprints leading out of the cave, until they were swallowed by the sands outside. Several sets of prints overlapped, all of them headed _out_ of the cave.

“Human boots,” Lace said grimly. “At least three or four sets. And—ugh.” She lowered her voice, “That _smell_. We are definitely too late to help Carver’s friend.”

They ran on, following the bobbing glow of a floating ball of fire that Garrett had conjured above himself. They caught up with the Warden just as he stumbled to a halt at the widest part of the cavern. It wasn’t much larger than a small room at a common inn.

Blood. Everywhere.

Dark splatters and congealing pools of it under the red-and-orange light of Garrett’s fire.

Six bodies. _Six_. All in blue-and-silver regalia. The one in the center was the most damaged, as he had fought the longest and the fiercest. Stab wounds in every limb and two arrows sticking from his chest. A broadsword had caught him in the middle. Skin stark white in death, his short dark hair and bushy moustache gleamed in the firelight.

Warden Stroud had stood alone in the battle; now he lay dead with five of his attackers.

“No! Nononono,” Carver fell to his knees by Stroud’s body. “Argh! That _bitch_!” He slammed his fist into the rough stone floor. Garrett stood by him.

Lace released a shaky breath and stepped closer, leaning her head against Leo’s side. He put his arm around her, holding her tight. His heart trembled. The Warden threat was suddenly very, viscerally _real_.

They stood in awkward silence for several minutes, just . . . waiting for some sign from Carver about how they should proceed.

A sob finally broke free from the giant warrior, “Garrett.” He looked up at his brother. “How—how am I going to tell Alistair?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’d like a sneak peek at an upcoming chapter, new beta readers are welcome, no experience required: [Contact info](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/profile).


	31. A Shadow in the Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to [SnuggleBonnet](https://snugglebonnet.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this chapter on absolutely no notice because I was excited to get it posted!
> 
> Content includes a mention of death by fire, canon-typical violence, and giant demon spiders.

Adamant Fortress stood for generations, impenetrable.

That had been before modern siege equipment. Before the Herald of Andraste had emerged from the Fade, Marked by fate. Before the Inquisition had been reborn. Before the Champion of Kirkwall had joined the new Inquisition.

Before Lace Harding.

Lace and Ava strode through the shattered main gate, into the burning front courtyard. Broken bodies lay amongst the rubble, their blue and silver uniforms identifying them as Grey Wardens, the untouchable warriors who protected the world from a Blight that would cover every nation—on the surface, and below.

An image flashed briefly across Lace’s mind: The proud, towering griffon memorial in Redcliffe Village, shining in the spring sunlight. Katherine Cousland had given her life for the world. The Wardens had been heroes once again.

Reality stood before them: Dusk had fallen, night eating past the orange-and-pink horizon into the fortress walls, where the once-gentle hum of magic had become an explosive war with demon-wielding zealots.

She steeled her heart. The Wardens had to be stopped.

Ava remained her silent shadow on the left. The Iron Bull took position on her right. Lace would protect his blind side; he would protect her from everything else.

“What’s the move, Boss?” he asked.

There was only one right answer. “Keep Karl alive. At all costs.”

“Even Leo?”

“At all costs,” Lace said again, staring at Bull’s good eye until he nodded his understanding.

Bull gestured to the right, “Dalish, Grim, check the door. Skinner and Stitches, make sure there aren’t any other exits on the other side.”

Rocky eyed the battlements and Lace looked up. With a scream, a Warden fell off the wall; he landed on the rubble, broken and silent. A Shade demon stood above growling down at them, but quickly turned to face the Inquisition soldiers that had climbed the siege ladders on the walls.

“Lace!” Leo ran through the broken gate, Karl and Dorian close on his heels. He had wanted to lead the initial charge, but he and Karl had agreed to hold back until entry into the fortress had been secured. The Herald would be needed to disrupt the ritual, and escorting the battering ram was too dangerous a task for anyone who needed to survive the battle.

His party included Lady Cassandra, Solas, Varric, Quinn, Sera, and Tama. Quinn said something to Karl, who nodded, and Quinn ran ahead to join Skinner and Stitches.

“We’re ready when you are,” Lace said, her strong words betraying nothing of the trembling fear in her chest.

She followed her love and his brother through the broken inner wall, into the heart of the battle.

No one they encountered was willing to parley.

They passed through a wrecked garden, felling a possessed mage, his rage demon, and the frantic warriors who tried to protect him. Rage, Shades, and spindly green Terrors popped up out of the stone floors in every corridor. Dorian and Solas always had a freezing spell ready, and Cassandra and Bull dispatched them with ease, though Lace, after weeks of traveling with Bull, could hear the underlying fear in each angry growl that accompanied his swing.

They fought their way through winding corridors, square rooms, and outdoor balconies until they reached a stone stairway to the battlements. The stairs were empty, but fighting could be heard above.

With twin yells, Cassandra and Bull led the charge up the stairs and down the battlements, where the Inquisition soldiers and Grey Wardens were evenly matched—but the demons gave the Wardens the upper hand. Dorian and Solas took out the mages; Lace and Varric picked off the wraiths; and the others fought . . . everyone else.

Soon, the fight on the battlements turned in the Inquisition’s favor. For every siege ladder the defenders threw down, two rose up in its place.

The Hawke brothers leapt over the battlements, clearing combatants like druffalo plowing through a pond. Carver’s broadsword remained strapped to his back as he used a borrowed Inquisition sword and shield on the narrow parapet. Garrett’s daggers flashed as quickly as his ice and horror spells.

All the mages in the Trevelyans’ party avoided fire spells. The Warden mages bound to Corypheus had no such qualms, and soon the air reeked of burning flesh and leather, and the Inquisitions’ mages had to shift their focus from offense to keeping the fires from spreading.

The stench stung Lace’s nose, but it was the press of bodies that made her flesh crawl and nerves scream: So many people crammed together, trying to kill each other, the stomping of boots and crash of siege rubble shaking the fortress. She’d never before been in such close quarters with so many people, even in peace.

And the noise! Oh, the noise rent her very soul. Unintelligible battle cries, clashing metal, toppling walls, screaming demons, the terrified final exclamations of the fighters cut down. Not even her battles with the Red Templars had prepared her for how _loud_ it all was. Her ears were assaulted as much as the rest of her body.

A booming, demonic laugh drowned out all other sounds, and the stone walkway under Lace’s feet shook so hard she stumbled. Her breath caught in her throat. At the end of the parapet, a Pride demon had sprung forth, raising its great, scaly arms and summoning giant crackling whips of lightning.

It was bigger than a behemoth. And faster.

“Arrrrrgh!” Carver charged down the center of the path, knocking Wardens to either side, some over the high wall on his way past. Cassandra and Bull ran after him, clearing the path for more Inquisition soldiers.

Three mages in blue and silver stood near the beast, laying glyphs and throwing fire.

“Dorian, Solas!” They couldn’t hear her, so Lace bumped their elbows and pointed to the glyphs. They dispelled them just as Carver charged through, right up under the demon’s arms and between its legs. He stabbed it behind the knee; the beast roared with pained anger, but did not slow its attack.

 _Fwwt, fwwt, fwwt_ , Lace and Ava felled the mages with swift arrows and the rest of her party rushed onward.

Carver, Cassandra, and Bull hewed at Pride’s arms and legs. The demon spun from side to side, then around in a complete circle, wildly throwing balls of lightning, unable to get a fix on three attacks from three different angles.

Lace blinked in surprise when Ava stopped and shoved her bow into Lace’s hand. The elf drew her daggers and fell to one knee, watching the demon intently.

Bull managed a wide, high swing up into the monster’s back and it screeched toward the sky, exposing its neck. Before its chin was even half-way raised, Ava disappeared from Lace’s side in a streak of blue light, passing straight through the beast’s neck and reappearing behind it. Pride was suddenly silenced. The demon’s lightning crackled and went out, and the demon fell straight back onto the stone. The gray body evaporated in a blue mist.

Heart pounding, breath ragged with shock, Lace’s ears rang in the relative quiet. More war raged at other parts of the fortress, but this area was clear of everyone except panting, wide-eyed Inquisition troops.

“Whew,” Bull whistled and grinned. “That is some trick.”

“Heh,” Ava blew out a shaky breath and smiled in return. “It’s not one I’d care to repeat, if we can avoid it. Too much can go wrong.”

“More wrong than a fortress full of demons?” Bull shook his head and clapped her on the shoulder. “Hate to see your definition of real trouble.” He hoisted his war hammer and made for the stairs. “Chargers, form up!”

Lace looked for Leo, who was hovering at Karl’s side while he held a hurried conversation with Cassandra and Warden Carver. Leo looked to Lace and she gave him a nod, indicating she was unharmed. The relief in his gaze made her go mushy, so she made herself turn away and trot off to Ava to return her bow.

The elven scout was wiping blue goo off her daggers with a cloth. Solas was at her side, his head tilted down toward hers in a private conversation. He glanced at Lace, but didn’t stop speaking.

“You are no more Dalish than the Iron Bull,” he said, with exaggerated casualness.

Well, fuck. If the odd apostate Fade expert was going to pick a fight with her not-so-secretly-a-mage scout while they were in the middle of another battle, somebody was going to get burned.

“Oh?” Ava answered just as casually. She sheathed her blades and accepted her bow back from Lace.

With a flick of his wrist, Solas cast a spell and the flap of Ava’s belt pouch opened. A purple feather as big as one of Varric’s quills flew out of the pouch and into his hand. Scowling, Ava grabbed his wrist, plucked the feather out of his hand, and secured it back in her pouch.

Solas chuckled, eyeing the green vallaslin on Ava’s brown forehead. The curved lines were tattooed into the shape of an intricate tree. “No, not Dalish at all.”

“Plenty of Dalish have the Lady’s favor,” Ava said, her calm façade returned.

“Hmm,” Solas smirked and followed after the Chargers.

“You okay?” Lace asked. “Is he going to be a problem?”

“Yes, and I have no idea.” Ava gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “But I’m sure he will help us win tonight.”

The Chargers guarded the stairwell, but the rest of the battle was elsewhere in the fortress. Karl and Leo had assigned troops to escort the wounded out the front gate and rearranged the other survivors into squads under Bull and Cassandra’s command.

Karl led them all into the heart of the fortress.

A dozen Warden mages stood around a ritual circle, gesturing wildly to enlarge a crackling green rent into the Fade. The Warden warriors who stood with them drew their weapons, creating a defensive line.

A gaunt, bald Orlesian woman in full Warden battlemage armor stood on an overlooking balcony. Her skin was as pale as the full moon rising overhead. Her blue pants were tucked into her brown boots, which were covered in blood. A senior Warden lay on a table in front of her, still in death, his throat slit.

A young, dark-haired elf woman in a green tunic lay at Clarel’s feet, her throat slit.

“Lace,” Charter gasped, “That’s Jana, a villager from Crestwood.”

“What evil is this?!” Tama demanded. “The Wardens kidnap her?”

“No,” Charter said, “A pair of Wardens saved her from the undead and she was so grateful, she enlisted.”

“Didn’t even bother to give her a uniform before they slit her throat,” Tama placed a hand over a blue and silver scrap of fabric she wore tied at her hip, like a scarf. “Even my father had that honor.”

“You bitch,” Carver stormed into the center of the courtyard.

“Warden Hawke?” a soldier in front gasped. “It is! Carver! Carver has returned home! _Carver is with the Inquisition!_ Warden-Commander, let us hear him!”

“We do not bargain with traitors,” Clarel announced. “Wardens! We are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect.”

“Your Tevinter ally binds the mages to Corypheus!” Carver bellowed. “Use your head instead of your ego, Clarel!”

“Corypheus?” She looked to Erimond, her mouth open in shock. “But he’s dead.”

One brave soul, a few years older than the young Wardens of his squad, stepped forward. His accent was Fereldan. “The mages who’ve done the ritual? They’re not right. They were my friends, but now they’re like puppets on a string.”

“You cannot let fear sway your mind, Warden Chernoff!” Clarel said.

Erimond smirked, “That’s a very serious accusation. Let’s see what the Wardens think.” He gestured down toward the mages. “Wardens, hands up,” he raised his hand in the air.

All the mages raised their hands simultaneously with him, their expressions as dead as the rotting ramblers they’d fought in Crestwood.

Lace shivered. This was not going to end well.

“Hands down.” As Erimond dropped his hand back to his side, the mages did the same.

“ _You_ —” Clarel jabbed at Erimond with her staff, lighting sparking, but he deflected it with an easy gesture. He hit her straight in the chest with another spell and she careened back into the table holding the dead senior Warden, before falling to the stone, her neck twisted and blank eyes wide in death.

“Fuck you!” Tama heaved a piece of rubble—big as a Qunari man’s skull—up at the balcony. Erimond dodged to the side, but the speeding rock hit him in the leg with a sickening crunch. He cried out in pain and scrambled for an archway leading away from the courtyard.

“Kill them!” he shouted.

The possessed mages instantly turned their fire-breathing Rage demons loose on the Inquisition forces.

Lace sprang to Leo’s side, where he crouched behind Cassandra. Magics exploded against her angled shield like fireworks, but she did not stumble.

Solas cast a barrier over them all.

“Carver!” Chernoff cried out. “What do we do?”

“To me!” Carver ordered. All the Warden warriors rushed to his side. “Chernoff, hold this line. Retreat when you can. I’m with the Inquisitor.”

With a wordless scream, Cassandra flung a spell purge, knocking back the first line of mages. “Go!” she shouted to Karl. “I’ll handle the mages. You must stop the Magister!”

But Karl was already racing after Erimond with Dorian, Solas close on his heels.

“Come back alive, yeah?” Sera let off an explosive shot into the heart of the mages’ circle. More possessed Wardens swarmed in the courtyard gate. “Shite.”

Bull strode forward, his giant weapon drawn. “We’ve got the demons, Boss. You cover your boys.”

Leo chuckled, grabbed Lace by the hand, and sprinted after Karl and Dorian. Carver, Garrett, and Varric ran alongside them. Behind, a shout rang up from the Wardens. “En guerre, Victoire!”

Lace’s legs screamed with the effort to keep up. Her blood rushed in her ears like the frenzied pounding of dragon wings. They were gaining on the hobbling Magister. He disappeared around a corner.

Through an archway and around a bend there was a broken stone platform hanging over a steep drop down the mountain. On a crumbling boulder sat Erimond, his injured leg stretched out before him, a magical barrier erected around him.

The Magister grinned.

“My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor! He sent me this to welcome you!” He pounded his staff twice on the stones.

With a giant screech, a tainted dragon flew up the mountainside and whooshed over their heads. Karl raised his glowing hand, but the beast was too fast. It rolled in the air, aiming to land behind them, cutting them off from the fortress.

But the dragon was too heavy.

As soon as its clawed feet hit the stone, the world gave way and they plunged into the abyss.

Lace’s breath rushed out, left behind as her body fell. There was no cliff face to grab. Leo slipped from her grasp, screaming her name as they plunged down the mountain. The Magister fell with them, babbling in frantic Tevene.

A flash of green Fade magic splashed across them and Lace covered her face with her hands, waiting to be dashed apart.

Only she wasn’t. She wasn’t falling anymore. She was . . . floating?

Hesitantly, Lace moved her hands from her face. She was hovering in the air, her nose just an arm’s length away from the ugly brown ground. Her bow lay on the ground to her right. She reached out and touched it, instantly falling the rest of the way to land on her stomach. “Oof!”

“Lace, you okay?” Leo asked from somewhere off to her left.

She scrambled to pick up her bow. “Yeah, fine. You?”

“Peachy. But this asshole is dead.”

Leo, Dorian, and Karl stood over Erimond’s body. The boulder the Magister had sat on while taunting them now lay on his chest. A pool of blood grew behind his head.

“Terrible waste,” Dorian muttered, then added cheerily, “Well, can’t be helped. Let’s get back to—where are we? Maker, are we _inside_ the Fade?”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Varric frantically looked all over the place. “This is very wrong. We weren’t going to do this shit again. Hawke, you promised me we would. Not. Do. This. Shit. Again.”

“It’s my fault, not his,” Karl said mildly. “And you’re welcome for saving your life, Varric.”

Curious, Lace followed his gaze. Everything was wrong. Up was down, down was up, the Stone was corrupt. Garrett Hawke walked sideways up a rough rock wall; his brother stood below him, his hands fisted on his hips. Reality was gone, a dirty green and wavering brown mirage in its place.

Some kind of magic.

“So it’s weird,” she said. “We can handle weird.”

Leo said tersely, “Lace, sweetie, we’re _in_ the _Fade_.”

She scowled. The first time he calls her sweetie and he’s irritated. This wasn’t any different than their other challenges, no matter how much more it scared them.

“Physically?” Solas grinned, checking out the vile green puddles. “Fascinating.”

“Don’t touch the water,” Ava warned him, eyeing his bare feet. He smirked.

“Well, you can fascinate us a way out of here, Solas” Karl grumbled. “Or,” he perked up. “Connor and the kid—Stella? Stella. They went into the Fade at Haven. Maybe—”

“No,” Ava said.

Solas cocked his head. “Perhaps if—”

“ _No_.” Ava said again.

“She is right.” A new voice joined them.

Lace spun toward the stranger, her heart galloping at the unexpected interruption. He was so close. Within arm’s reach.

It was _Stroud_. Or something that looked like him. Bushy dark moustache, sweet, rolling Orlesian accent. His voice was much less gruff than she had assumed it would be, based on Carver’s descriptions of the senior Warden. His shining blue-and-silver regalia was pristine. A very different vision than the massacre they had found in his cave.

“ _Jean-Marc._ ” Carver’s relived smile faded when his brother grabbed his arm, preventing him from rushing forward.

“You’re a demon?” Carver’s face contorted with grief.

“I will not hurt you,” Stroud told Carver gently, before turning to Karl. “You are physically here, Inquisitor, when your other allies cannot be. Your realities differ. Like in dreams, friend and foe blend together. One moment bleeds into the next, twisting purpose. To invite your friends in could destroy you all—if you or they did not first go mad.”

“You are a spirit of wisdom, or learning?” Solas asked.

The spirit tilted his head, exactly like an inquisitive mortal would. “Have we met?”

“I often walk the Fade—in dreams.”

“That does not answer my question, old one, but I will not pry. I am here to lead you out, not reveal secrets—except to the Herald.”

Leo tensed at Lace’s side.

Dorian’s eyes flashed with purple fire. “Whatever you want from him, the answer is no.”

“What do you want?” Karl asked.

“For you to remember, and to escape. I would like to reunite you with the memories The Nightmare stole from you at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It was not a hit on the head that made you forget. The Nightmare works with Corypheus. People are made to forget. Your fears are its food, as it prepares itself for entering your world.”

“Well, shit,” Karl said.

“Walk with me,” the spirit said, “and you will find a way out.”

“And you?” Ava asked sharply.

“I shall remain here, in the Fade, as is my place.”

Ava looked skeptical, but Karl nodded in agreement, saying, “It beats waiting around for other demons to find us, right?”

“Unless your dashing Orlesian hero is leading us to his other demon friends,” Dorian said dryly.

Ava stepped forward. “Shall I take point, my lord?”

Karl again nodded his consent and they were on their way through the murky brown-green landscape that revealed no sky, and no paths. They avoided the puddles, pools, and shallow lakes that suddenly appeared beside, behind, and in front of them as they walked. The waters reeked of sulfur and the rocks that surrounded them dripped with brown and green water.

“I miss the clean streams of the Hinterlands,” Lace sighed, and immediately regretted taking a deep breath. The stench from the water made her cough.

Leo reached over and laced his fingers with hers. “When we get out of here, we can go riding at Redcliffe Farms. You’d like that?”

“Yeah,” she smiled up at him.

The chittering of angry animals had them all readying their weapons.

“Fearlings approach, Inquisitor,” spirit-Stroud said. “The Nightmare forms them from your memories. But they can be killed, just like animals in your world.”

“Maker!” Lace exclaimed. Fat spiders bigger than Mabari skittered toward them, their heads shaped like human heads. Each spider’s human face was Leo’s _mother’s_.

“Ugh,” Leo threw three quick knives into the leader’s swollen belly—thud, thud, thud, and the monster rolled over, twitching. “Karl, is this your nightmare, or mine?”

“Heh,” Karl’s nervous laugh was more whimper than amusement.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian shoved all the spiders away with a wall of fire. They shriveled up, screaming like giant spiders, not people. That was one small miracle. If Lace had heard a swarm of Lady Trevelyans dying by fire, she might have lost it.

“Solas,” Dorian pointed into the murky distance, “Watch for more.”

Solas haughtily arched an eyebrow, but Dorian turned his back on him, taking Karl’s face between his hands. “Amatus?”

Karl’s eyes were wide and glassy. His arms shook. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

“She’s gone,” Dorian said. “You sent her away. Here, would you like a rejuvenating potion?”

Leo averted his gaze and wrapped his arm around Lace’s shoulders.

Varric kicked a pebble into the nearest pond. Ava and Garrett kept watch with Solas.

“Stroud, how far?” Carver asked.

“A few hours’ journey at most, but we must move as soon as you’re ready. The Nightmare will find—”

A rough voice boomed from the sky, “Some foolish little boy comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Karl said tiredly, leaning heavily on Dorian, but he appeared aware of himself in the present.

The Nightmare laughed. “Given up already? What of your knife-eared companions? Do you really think they’ll use their magic to save the shems?”

It chuckled again, the horrible bass reverberating through Lace’s bones.

“Ava, Ava, Ava. Shall I take your memory, just as I took the ‘Heralds?’ Who would you be then?”

“My heart would still know the truth, even if I became an empty vessel. You cannot win, no matter how many lives you ruin along the way.”

“Ah, but what if they learn who you _really_ are? Shall I remove your shame, or brand it on you? Maybe I will just tell your friends in what Age you were born, and let them tear you apart.”

Ava waved her own hand in front of her face and her Mythal vallaslin disappeared. Not a trace of the intricate green tattoo remained on her brown skin.

Solas gave a knowing smirk.

“Well, shit,” Varric said.

Lace wasn’t surprised by anything anymore. All she cared about was finding an exit to get their physical bodies out of the Fade.

“I am not ashamed,” Ava declared. “I have always shown my true self, whatever paint I may use. They know me already.” Her voice echoed off the slime-covered rocks, slicing through the poisonous green air. “I was born this side of the Veil, before the ages had names. I am neither the oldest, nor strongest of elves. But I am an agent of the Inquisition, and the Inquisition will see you and your master defeated.”

“Argh!” the demon gave a strangled cry and the voices stopped.

“Let’s move,” Ava strode ahead. “He will be back with reinforcements.”

Lace trudged after her. A few elven strides further, and they reached a tall, steep staircase cut into a rough stone wall. Inky black-and-green mists drifted toward them, making it impossible to see how far the wall stretched.

“Up is the only way,” Stroud said. He and Ava went in front.

Carver gestured for Karl to go next. Karl sighed heavily. He leaned on Dorian as they climbed. Varric followed the Hawke brothers and Leo and Lace brought up the rear.

After several minutes of slow climbing, the sickly green light took on a bright yellow tinge that made Lace squint. Over the crest of the stairs was a round, shallow indent in the brown ground, about as big around as Leliana’s tower office. Around the perimeter were stone pedestals that held eight tiny iron cages, each containing a floating, glowing gold orb of light.

When Karl and Dorian followed Stroud into the circle, the gold lights jumped to life, bouncing around their cages like panicked birds. Green magic sparked around Karl’s hand and he grunted, stumbling into Dorian’s arms.

The shriek of a despair demon pierced Lace’s ears, immediately followed by the clatter of giant spider legs on stone.

“We’ve got this,” Garrett said, racing ahead with Carver and Varric.

Solas eyed Karl shrewdly. Ava eyed Solas. Lace took Leo’s trembling hand in her own, wishing she could do something more than stand around and witness Karl’s struggle.

“What now?” Karl panted.

“Only you can retrieve your memories,” Stroud said. “But you are not alone. We will be here with you.”

“Yeah, retrieve. Sure, like, just reach out and—ow!” Karl gripped Doran’s arm, reaching his other hand out toward the nearest cage. The orb exploded out of its iron prison and shot straight into his palm. Karl clenched his fist and coughed. “Well, almost as easy as closing a rift.”

He straightened and did it again. And again. And again. Every one of them. When the last orb hit him, he cried out, clutched at his head, and fell to his knees, pulling Dorian with him.

“Karl!” Leo squeezed Lace’s hand so hard it hurt. She trembled along with him, swallowing back tears.

Varric and the Hawke brothers came running back. Garrett took a quick inventory of all the broken cages. “What happened?”

“I remember,” Karl gulped. “The Temple. How Corypheus made the Breach. Dorian, help me up.” They struggled to their feet.

Karl looked between Ava and Solas, hesitating. “Ava—you’re a Dreamer?”

She nodded.

“Can—can you help me show the others?”

“As you wish, my lord. All I have to do is hold your hand. You need not be parted from Lord Pavus.”

“Please.” Karl reached out.

Ava removed her glove and linked her fingers with his. “With the Lady’s blessing, let us see the shadows of the past. My they teach us. May they keep us safe.”

A green mist rose from the ground in front of her, twisting itself into a moving picture. In it, human figures moved about, like they’d jumped out of a painting and decided to go for a walk. It was murky, but it was clearly the inside of the Temple before the explosion, and the face of each person was recognizable.

“Hmm,” Solas hummed with interest.

The green-tinted picture moved, turning like a person turns their neck to speak to someone at their side. Leo’s beautiful, serious face came into view. It was as if they could all see him—what he had done in the past—though Karl’s eyes.

A slimy shiver ran up Lace’s spine. No matter what incantation Ava made as a safeguard, the magic that made this possible was probably extremely dangerous.

Leo’s lips moved, but the picture was silent. A tight frown wrinkled Leo’s forehead and his shoulders were stiff with tension, though the room appeared orderly. All the priests, mages, Templars, and mercenaries hired for protection moved from a big room of stone, out through various archways.

The brothers walked side by side down a long, vacant corridor.

“ _Someone, help me!_ ” a frail Orlesian woman’s cry broke the silence.

“Andraste’s flaming knickers!” Varric instinctively raised his crossbow toward the vision.

Solas held up a hand, calling for patience. “These are but shadows and memories, Child of the Stone. The past cannot hurt us.”

“Of course it can,” Karl grunted, his face scrunched in pain.

In the green vision, the brothers sprinted down the hall, weapons drawn.

“ _Why are you doing this? You of all people?_ ”

Leo shouldered the door open, and was immediately thrown back into Karl, who toppled over backward, giving them all a view of the vaulted ceiling.

“ _Run while you can! Warn them!”_

Karl rolled toward the wall, Leo in his arms.

A glimpse of uniforms with griffon details.

An old woman writhing in the air.

A smack and thud. An explosion of green magic.

Bits of memory flashed by: Tilted sideways while carrying a burden. Round, swollen bodies of giant spiders charging. Scrambling up a jagged rock wall with a body over his shoulder.

A shadow gesturing for him to hurry. A jolt, as if pushed from behind.

Falling through a rift into nothingness.

The mists of the past suddenly broke away. Karl leaned heavily on Dorian, panting as if he’d run up the cliff again.

Here was disturbing evidence that Corypheus had not acted alone at the Temple. Lace hoped she had seen it wrong. “Was that—”

“Argh!” Carver grabbed Stroud and shoved him against a stone pillar. “Why?! Why were we at the Conclave? Why are we working with Corypheus!”

Eyes full of sorrow, Stroud remained passive in Carver’s grip.

“Carver,” Garrett said gently, pulling him back. “Carver Malcolm Hawke. You are a good man. You order is good—whatever actions a handful of people made. You are good. You can overcome this. We can.”

The spirit’s outline waivered. His body turned opaque.

“No, don’t go!” Carver reached out, his hand passing through the fading spirit. He fell to his knees. “ _Je suis désolé, Jean-Marc_. Please, don’t leave us.”

Stroud’s form solidified again. “I never wanted to cause you pain, but you must know what happened, and we must part soon, mon petit seigneur des chiens.”

Carver sobbed out a laugh. “Maker, I miss you.” He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “What will I do without you?”

“The Grey Wardens of Orlais are leaderless. Without you, they will crumble.”

“What about Chernoff—or an actual Orlesian?”

Stroud smiled. “He has the heart. Perhaps one day he will show the same promise you do. When the time comes to appoint another, you will know.”

“Where is Andraste?” Leo asked in confused disbelief. “They say she saved us. That shadow—” he looked to the spirit. “That was you?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Leo said thickly, shaking his head. Lace wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek against his side.

“You know how stories work, right?” Varric said. “One guy at a tavern gets drunk enough to tell his buddy that he thought he saw a shadow behind the murderer who fell from the Fade. The next day, the prisoner has performed a miracle, and the guard who made the arrest is bought another round by people eager to hear his story. Only now, maybe the shadow behind the man who fell out of the Fade looked human—and maybe that human had a soft and peaceful white glow around them. Within another few hours, everyone has bought him another few rounds and the story has grown. By the next morning, the ladies who own the tavern are telling everyone that a shining gold figure saved Trevelyan. It was Andraste, and he is her Herald.

“We mortals need that kind of shit to cope, right?” Varric said. “Look, Hero, I know it’s devastating, but let’s get your brother out of here, and then we can weep to the Maker over a pint.”

“No more pints for Corypheus,” Karl said. “Lead on, Stroud.”

The rough terrain became darker. Wetter. Steeper. They passed through a dank, narrow cave that was barley taller than the humans in their party. Nearing the exit, they paused, blinking at the sharp green light and sulfur fumes that poured into the cave.

Beyond, where Lace could not see, there was a great noise of many bodies moving in an echoing space of stone. More of those Fearlings—and something bigger. A chittering insect with a voice as deep as a dragon. She swallowed hard.

“The Nightmare guards the rift,” Stroud said. “I can distract the smaller creatures. You must run. Close the tear before it is large enough to let the Nightmare through.”

“Yes, Ser,” Carver said with determination. He and his brother took point at the cave mouth, ready to clear the path. Varric remained at Hawke’s side.

Ava and Solas would follow Karl closely, covering him from behind. Lace and Leo took the rear-guard position.

“Thank you,” Karl said. “You are as noble as the Stroud from Carver’s tales.”

The spirit nodded gravely. He turned to Lace, a gold quiver appearing magically in his hands, stuffed full of glowing gold arrows. “May your quiver always be full.”

“Um . . . Thanks.” When she accepted the gift, a zip of magic coursed over her fingers. She added her leftover arrows to the gold set and put it on.

The spirit chuckled. “You will not need the others.”

She smiled sweetly in return. “You can never have too many arrows. Ready, Leo?”

The future Bann of Ostwick bent down to give her a fast, firm kiss that spurred her heart to running speed. “I’m with you.”

“Maker watch over you,” spirit-Stroud said, and burst out of the cave.

Carver and Garrett ran after him, plowing through more Fearlings in a direct line toward a druffalo-sized rift on the other side of the clearing. Karl and Dorian followed, more slowly than Karl was usually able to run. Close on his heels, Ava and Solas threw spells left and right.

Looming over them all was a spider as tall as the fortress wall of Skyhold, with dozens of eyes, and jagged, hairy pinchers as big as a pride demon’s arms.

 _Fwwt, fwwt, fwwt_. In less than a blink, Lace was filling its face full of gold arrows. The beast reared up with a wail, turning away from the rift—away from Karl—and scrambled toward her. She hit it in its topmost eye and it careened back a giant step.

Leo kept the Fearlings at bay on her right. Stroud fought them on her left.

The noise of the Fearlings faded away. All she heard was her own measured breaths. Her whole being narrowed into one focus: hit the big bastard.

Nock, draw, release. Nock, draw, release. _Nockdrawrelease_.

Arrow after arrow in its dozens of eyes.

 _Nockdrawrelease_.

“They’re through! Lace. Lacie! Baby, we’ve got to go!”

She sprinted for the rift.

Leo gained on her fast, scooping her up against his chest as he ran.

She dropped her bow and clung to his neck, burying her face against him.

The hissing of the rift filled her ears more than the snarls of the chasing spider, the poisonous green light bright even through her closed eyelids.

“Ah!” Leo cried out in pain, his grip on her loosening.

As she fell back through the rift, she tightened her hold on him and pulled him through with her.


	32. Of Wardens and Royalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers for this chapter, [SnuggleBonnet](https://snugglebonnet.tumblr.com/), [Tessa1972](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessa1972/gifts), and [Ray_Murata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata).
> 
> Content includes canon-typical injuries and a rape mention.

“Healer! I need a healer!” Lace screamed, half-pinned to the ground by Leo’s limp weight. A giant puncture wound on his back seeped green ooze.

Wardens looked wildly around, but if any of their healers had survived, they weren’t nearby.

Ava ran forward. “I’m here, Lace.”

“Ava, Ava,” Lace sobbed. “Help him!”

“You!” Ava pointed at a Warden Warrior, and then a small wooden door at the end of the courtyard. “Get that room open.”

Dorian tore off his outer robe to use as a stretcher and Hawke and Carver carried him in. It was a healer’s room, with wood benches and tables for patients, one wall covered with shelves holding equipment and herbs, and one wall filled with three fireplaces, each one holding a merrily crackling fire.

Magic flames of orange and green danced in the middle fireplace. The other two appeared ordinary.

“Good,” Ava said, gesturing toward fires. The flames leapt higher, and a blast of jarring hot air rushed through the room.

Leo groaned, but didn’t regain consciousness.

Lace clutched Leo’s hand, her freckled face wet with free-flowing tears, strands of her hair frizzled out from her braid every which way.

“On the table,” Ava ordered, and the Hawke brothers set him down gently.

From the supplies wall, Ava grabbed a wooden dowel and a little glass bottle containing a viscous potion the color of melted gold. “Have to get the Fade poison out,” she said, handing Lace the dowel. “Put this between his teeth and keep him from rolling off the table.”

With swift, practiced movements, Ava cut Leo’s jacket and shirt into strips, pulled them off, and rolled him onto his side. She tossed the ruined clothes into the center fire. Lace braced herself for the stench of burning leather, but the magic flames released no scent.

Ava rinsed Leo’s back over and over again with the gold liquid. Hissing green bubbles flowed out like boiling blood.

Karl grimaced and clutched his Marked hand to his chest. It crackled with magic. “Am I interfering?”

“No, just don’t touch him. Dorian can help you if it hurts.”

Dorian wrapped an arm around him and the cackling subsided.

Lace snatched her hands back, but Ava smiled at her kindly. “It’s okay, Child of the Stone. Go ahead and hold him.”

Lace kissed Leo’s knuckles, already wet from her free-flowing tears.

“It’s clean.” Ava said. “Minimal blood loss. Keep him on his side while I administer health potions.”

A Warden ran in. “Someone needs a healer?”

“I have him,” Ava said, “But the others may have Fade injuries that need cleansing.”

“Yes, Ser!” The Warden immediately followed the elf’s orders, pulling more gold potions from the shelf. “Everyone who was in the Fade, strip. Every last stitch of clothing goes in the center fire. Your weapons can be cleansed; set them on this table.”

The sounds of the others faded into the background.

Lace held Leo’s hand in both of her own. Watched him though a tired haze. His expression was peaceful now, like when he slept in their bed at Skyhold.

She barely registered a hand on her shoulder. “Lace, _lethallan_ , Dorian can watch him for a few moments.”

“Hmm?” What was Ava saying?

Dorian eased into the seat beside her and gently took Leo’s rough brown hand with his elegant bronze fingers, saying softly, “I’ll hold your place, my lady.”

“Your accent is so pretty,” Lace mumbled, and he smiled.

She let Ava lead her behind a curtain. She stumbled through undressing, waking with a start when Ava helped her out of her shirt—she still had it around her neck and one arm. Ava helped her stay upright in a simple wooden tub of fresh water. Lace dozed off again as her friend washed her hair with warm water, rinsing it with a cup, separating the snarls gently with her fingers.

She didn’t know whose shirt she wore when Ava led her back out into the common area. It was long enough to brush the top of her bare feet, like a dress.

“Here we are, then,” Dorian said, rising from his seat. Leo had been moved to a wide, low cot. He lay on his side with pillows propped up behind his injured back, and one under his neck to keep his spine in alignment.

Ava helped Lace crawl up in front of him and covered them both with blankets. Lace burrowed her face into his warm chest, feeling the regular movement of his breathing against her forehead. She placed an open palm over his beating heart.

He whispered her name in his sleep and wrapped his arms around her loosely.

For the first time in her life, she wished she could dream, so she could be in the Fade with him again.

Her eyelids fluttered shut. She slept like the Stone.

-

Dorian sat on the edge of his cot, uncertain what to do with the silence, but reluctant to break it. Karl slept peacefully on the cot next to him. Just beyond, Leo and Lace slept as well.

They had nearly lost them both.

He took a shaky breath and willed the thought away. They’d come out the other side victorious. The Nightmare—critically injured by their Lead Scout—remained trapped in the Fade, and his master’s plan had been thwarted once again.

Despite his fatigued muscles, nervous energy zipped through Dorian’s blood. Directly accessing the Fade had been terrifying, but the ready access to mana had made it easy to keep the smaller demons at by. He had yet to crash from the mana high.

Certain his beloved Amatus and friends were comfortable enough to sleep for a while, Dorian left the infirmary for some fresh nighttime air. The desert mountain was cold in the dark. A second pair of thick wool socks allowed a pair of large Warden boots to fit him. He slipped a thick cloak on over his borrowed shirt and breeches. His Tevinter armor had been disposed of in the center hearth.

Out of habit, he strapped on his potions belt. Actually, the potions were his, as they’d passed inspection after their little jaunt into the Fade, but the belt and pouch were a replacement from the kind Warden healer. His own had gone into the magic flames reserved for Fade-poisoned objects. Dorian had been pleasantly surprised to find some Southerners used this method as well. He’d always kept one burning in Gereon’s laboratory.

Inquisition patrols had the watch on the parapets. In the distance, near the front of the fortress, many torches were lit, illuminating the outlines of Inquisition troops and Wardens in the midst of clean-up. It was eerily quiet here, the air strangely fresh. The funeral pyres had not yet been lit.

As he walked the fortress walls under the moonlight, two warriors approached him: Warden Carver—that is, _Warden-Commander Hawke_ —and Chernoff. The younger Warden eyed him with curiosity.

“Lord Pavus, do you have everything you need in the infirmary?” Carver asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Varric convinced the Seeker to rest,” Carver said, “though I’m sure she’ll be up before dawn, complaining about my leadership.”

“Oh?”

Carver’s rigid smile indicated he didn’t care a fig for whatever the Seeker thought. “When their bound demons were killed, the mages returned to their senses. I’ve partnered each with at least two non-magic companions from my Wardens, but I will not allow any Templars.”

“A sensible plan, considering what I’ve seen of Southern Templars—and the Elder One’s Red Templars.”

“Are you a Magister?” Chernoff blurt out.

Ah, yes, the question everyone in the South asked. Dorian could recite the answer in his sleep. “I’m a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium.”

“Thank you, Lord Pavus,” Carver smoothly redirected the conversation. “We’ll leave you to your promenade.”

The Warden-Commander bowed and walked on, his Second scurrying after him.

“What about Ruth?” Chernoff asked. “Her lamenting is wildly unhelpful.”

“Garrett will partner with her for the time being. Let me know if anyone else is struggling and I’ll give them duties within their ability.”

Dorian was suddenly tired. He preferred bright sunlight to walking in darkness. Back home in Tevinter, he had been more likely to practice his necromancy in the middle of the pleasantly warm day than in the secretive night. Night was _cold_.

He was about to turn back toward Karl, when a white glint caught his eye.

At the end of the parapet, staring out over the dark desert, was a lithe elven woman, her freshly-washed white hair flowing free beyond her waist. Her brown feet were bare on the cold stone.

Curious, Dorian approached cautiously, making sure his footfalls could be heard. Not that any human could sneak up on an elf, but he’d heard Lace telling Karl that her scouts offered such a courtesy to each other.

When closer, he saw the back of her heels were chapped raw.

“Good evening, Lord Pavus,” she said, turning around. Her blue eyes were bright with freshly banished tears. Damp streaks on her cheeks confirmed she’d been crying.

“Scout Ava,” he replied, hiding his surprise. He’d never seen her out of uniform, and had somehow missed—forgotten—her hair was white. Her soft skin was nearly as dark as Karl’s. She again wore the fake Mythal vallaslin on her forehead.

“Are you in pain?” he asked. “Has no one tended to you?”

She smiled. “I don’t need a healer. I have some blisters that will heal quickly.” She chuckled, “Millenia of wearing boots and I still haven’t found a cure for blisters.”

He was already reaching into this potions pouch. “I have a salve, if you don’t mind peppermint. I would be happy to administer it, or gift you the bottle.”

“That sounds lovely.” She sat on a stone bench and let him apply the ointment to the back of her heels. He applied a light layer of it over the top of her feet, too. She sighed in contentment. “Thank you.”

He nodded and stood.

“You haven’t asked why,” she said, gesturing toward her vallaslin.

“It is not my place.” She had trusted them with the secret in the Fade, but he wasn’t about to assume any of them had the right to pry. Even during his first bumbling attempts at escaping his father, he’d known not to pry in the private lives of people he met on the road.

“They’re slave markings.”

He stiffened, braced for censure, but she offered none.

“The Dalish don’t know of their origins. They wear them to honor the gods. I have reclaimed one, to show my devotion and free will.” She smiled mischievously, “And sometimes it’s easier for a ‘Dalish’ to exchange goods and intelligence with travelers, than it is for a city elf.”

It sounded like she had no one other than the Inquisition. Before Karl, Dorian also had journeyed alone, only occasionally meeting with Felix for brief moments in secret, and exchanging correspondence with Maevaris.

“Are you lonely?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she leaned back on her hands with a sigh, stretching out her long legs. “Tonight reminds me of all I’ve lost. Most of my friends were killed at Ostagar. I was . . . elsewhere, at the time. Had I been there, I also would have perished at the King’s side, along with his personal guard and Warden friends.”

“I’m glad we met,” Dorian said and she smiled up at him.

“Me, too. Good night, Dorian.”

“Good night.”

-

There wasn’t time for fear, yet Leo could not keep it at bay. It screamed in his head while demons swarmed them. Warden mages loomed with a mad orange fire in their possessed eyes. Warden warriors rushed forward with panicked cries, desperate to protect their order from the invaders. The Nightmare possessed Sloas and killed them all.

Leo woke with a gasp, clutching Lace tight to his chest.

It was over.

His back was sore, but breathing didn’t hurt. Actually, his back hurt like he’d been stabbed, and laying in this position was becoming unbearable. He couldn’t bend his free arm behind himself to move the dratted pillows, so he tried slipping his other arm out from under Lace.

“Hmmph,” she mumbled into his chest and looked up. “Oh! Don’t move. I’ll get Ava.”

“It’s okay. Just, help me sit up.”

She scrambled to her feet, tossed the blankets on another cot, and supported his neck while he pulled on her arm to get upright. Sitting on the cot made his knees higher than his hips. A stab of pain shot up his spine.

“ _Maker_ ,” he hissed through his teeth. “Sitting’s not good. Get me standing.”

She braced herself and pulled with both hands, hauling him to his feet and wrapping her arms around his waist to prevent him from falling on his face.

“Wow,” he smiled down at her, ignoring the violent trembling of his own legs. “I should ask you to yank me around more often.”

She giggled and her cheeks turned pink. Her curly copper hair was loose over her shoulders. She wore a loose, wrinkled tunic that hid everything from the neck down. The woman had the most gorgeous green eyes the world had ever seen.

“Ahem,” Dorian was there, smiling as he offered Leo a health potion and set a short stool in front of him so Lace could stand on it.

“Karl?” Leo asked. He’d seen him escape the Fade, but Karl wasn’t in the infirmary.

“Meeting with Warden-Commander Hawke,” Dorian said. “I’d best join them.” He bowed and left.

Lace traced his cheek with her finger and he kissed her thumb on its way past. Standing on the stool, she was just a head shorter than him. He took advantage of that and kissed her.

“Hmm,” she hummed against his mouth, the vibrations waking up the rest of him as well. He wondered if this fortress had any real beds in it. The health potion was already helping ease his soreness.

“Warden-Commander, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah, Carver’s already got them all in line and told Lady Pentaghast to bugger off.”

“Heh, ow.” Laughing pulled on his mending back. “I’d have paid to see that.”

“Ha! Rich boy.”

He kissed her again, taking his sweet time, loving her mouth with his tongue. Here was where he belonged. There was no home without her.

He rested his cheek on her hair. “Lace, will you marry me?”

“ _Yes!_ ” she whispered, pecking wild kisses all over his face.

“When?” he asked. If there was a priest in the room, he would have asked her to commence the ceremony then and there.

Lace laughed.

The door opened and Scout Ava walked in. She wore a fresh Inquisition uniform and had her hair up, but no hood covered her head. “Good, you’re up. We need to ice your back, and then show you stretches. You can groom Pepper, if you feel up to it, but no riding for three days. No combat for ten—at least.”

“What about other activities?” Leo grinned down at Lace and waggled his eyebrows.

She gasped and gave him a light punch on the elbow.

“Ow,” he said, even though it didn’t really jar his injury. Indeed, the potion Dorian had provided made Leo feel like he could carry her up a tower’s stairs and make love all day long.

Lace covered her mouth, eyes wide with worry. “I’m so sorry!”

“Bah,” Ava said. “He can take it. You’ve not hurt him. Let’s get started.”

-

As soon as Leo was well enough, Karl led the Inquisition’s forces back toward Skyhold. Carver and his brother had Adamant well in hand, and with Erimond dead, the Venatori in the area had scattered to other regions. Karl left squads at key camps suggested by Lace, Ava, and Charter, who exchanged ravens with Leliana daily.

With help from the Chargers, they located and closed every rift in the Western Approach, and then headed south, closing every rift they found in Emprise du Lion. Charter led her squad back to Crestwood.

Then they finally headed home. North, to Skyhold.

As they approached the gates, Grand Enchanter Connor waved a greeting from the battlements and disappeared into the keep.

As soon as Ace stepped into Skyhold, Karl’s shoulder’s relaxed. Not only was this good shelter, but the place had a _feel_ to it. Not the itch he’d experienced their first visit here, weeks before. It was a calm, friendly presence—like his Mark was reflected by something else that balanced him out. The idea sounded crazy in his own head, so he kept it to himself.

Josephine immediately intercepted them, tasked grooms and footmen to tend to their horses and gear, and whisked Karl and Cullen off for a debriefing. She breezed through her office, listing off all the repairs and accomplishments of the building crews.

“And the Cadashes were prompt with last week’s delivery—” she stopped short in the War Room doorway and dropped into a deep curtsey.

The King of Ferelden stood behind the war table, hair shining gold in the sun setting behind his back.

“Fuck Weisshaupt. They did shit after Duncan’s death, and I don’t expect them to do better after Stroud’s.”

Ferelden’s monarch was talking with his cousin Connor, who appeared to have no qualms about settling into the War Room during Karl’s absence—and _not_ sending him word that the _King_ had shown up. Though, Karl supposed, such a message could have been intercepted, with disastrous results. That he’d managed to sneak in without Josephine noticing was a testament to how resourceful they both were.

“Inquisitor, a word?” the King asked.

As if Karl could refuse.

“Alistair!” Leliana rushed into the room, all semblance of the cool, detached Spymaster forgotten. “You should be in Denerim.”

“I left Teagan and Brayden in charge. If anything happens to me, a Landsmeet will confirm Teagan’s son as my successor. I have Fergus’ word.”

Karl’s Marcher mind spun, piecing together all the Fereldan connections. If anything happened to King Alistair, the Arl of Redcliffe’s son would be crowned king, because Teyrn Cousland had enough influence over the freemen to secure the vote.

But why would Ferelden’s King leave his responsibilities in the hands of a steward in the middle of a war?

“Have you found an Archdemon?” Alistair asked Leliana.

 _That’s_ why. The King had been a Grey Warden first.

“You tell us,” she said quietly.

“I don’t _know_ ,” he growled. “It _feels_ wrong. The archdemon hasn’t tried to talk to me in dreams, but the Calling is incessant in my head. You say it’s a fake Calling. You say Stroud’s dead. I heard of Warden-Commander Clarel’s fall before your bird even reached me.”

His voice thickened with emotion, “Leliana, I did _not_ sacrifice the Hero of Ferelden to Urthemiel just to have my people killed in another Blight ten years later!”

Leliana placed her gloved hand on his arm, her expression more open than Karl had ever seen. Raw, genuine.

“Kate was supposed to be _Queen_ , Leliana,” the King glared down at her hand on his arm, but did not move away. “Not _dead_. When the time came, were going to take the Long Walk together.”

Josephine stood silent, patient concern on her face. At her side, Cullen’s brow was furrowed in horror, his cheeks devoid of all color.

The war room door opened silently and Morrigan stepped in, leather boots soft on the stone floor. Alistair looked up at the movement. His look turned stony.

“I guess we can’t call on your mother to get us out of this one,” he said.

Morrigan raised her chin in silent defiance.

“Be careful, Inquisitor,” Alistair didn’t take his eyes off her. “Morrigan will abandon you in your darkest hour.”

Morrigan bristled. “She was my friend, too, Alistair. My only friend.”

Morrigan turned on her heel and left, quietly closing the door behind her.

Alistair buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Leliana, can you tell Morrigan I’m sorry?”

“Of course I will. And she will forgive you.” Leliana soothed him, her Orlesian accent thicker than usual.

“Zev-ran,” she said, spurring a movement from a shady corner.

Josephine and Cullen gasped.

 _Shit_. Karl did his best to hide his surprise. How had he missed the sixth person in the room?

A cloaked figure stepped forward, pulled his hood back to reveal the blond elf who had accompanied the King to Redcliffe. Karl now had a better look at his high cheekbones, the wavy black tattoos that ran in sleek lines down his left cheek. Hair mostly loose to his shoulders, a pair of braids ran back from his temples. His copper eyes held grim depths. Only assassins had that look.

The elf bowed, “What is your desire, Sister Nightingale?” His rich accent was as Antivan as Josephine’s, but clearly from a different _element_ of Antiva.

Leliana gave him a sad smile. “Would you arrange dinner for yourself and the King, please?”

Zevran’s gaze softened with tenderness. “Of course.” He wrapped an arm around Alistair, “Come, my friend.”

Alistair straightened. “I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own, Zev. I’ve been crying, not stabbed.”

“Yes, I see. Moved with passion.” He lowered his voice suggestively, “Should you need comfort—”

Alistair laughed. “No, thank you. Let’s just find some hot food and figure out what to do about this mess.” He turned back with a nod, “Inquisitor.”

“Your Majesty,” Karl bowed and watched them leave.

“Leliana, what do I do with Ferelden’s monarch? I assume that the Chantry and Empire will freak out if they find him here, working with us.”

“I can convince him to return to Denerim.”

“Is that the best course? _Will_ we need him to defeat Corypheus’ dragon? Will _he_ need to be near us? Can we help him? If his Calling worsens . . .”

“King Alistair is a Warden who needs a Warden’s task,” Josephine offered. “I can transfer some of the Wardens recruited from Adamant to the King’s command as a guard unit. Discretely, of course, to avoid accusations that the Wardens have invaded Ferelden. That should address both the King’s concerns about a force for a potential Blight, and your concerns about his wellbeing.”

Leliana smiled. “Thank you, Josie. That will go over better than what I had planned.”

They’d have the King back home before anyone learned of his trip to the Inquisition’s stronghold. That settled, the tension eased from Karl’s shoulders—until he saw Cullen. The Commander remained uncharacteristically silent.

“You’re pretty pale, Cullen. What’s up?”

Cullen blinked and looked up, throat working for a moment before he got any sound out. “Just memories of Kinloch Hold, Inquisitor.” Leliana stiffened and watched Cullen closely. “They won’t interfere with my duties.”

Karl nodded, “Go and tell Cassandra about the King and Zevran. We want to keep a lid on this, but she needs to know.”

Given a direct task, Cullen’s expression cleared and he left the room. Karl hadn’t questioned his abilities, and at the same time had directed him to the Seeker who was helping him stay off lyrium. It felt like a damn good diplomatic accomplishment.

“Lady Montilyet, don’t let me keep you from your dinner,” Karl said. “I would like to start on the Wardens’ transfer later this evening, if we could.”

It meant less time with Dorian, but it would get the King on his way sooner.

The Ambassador gave him a bright Antivan smile. “The contract will be done within the hour, Inquisitor.”

As usual, she was three steps ahead of him. “You have the papers half-done already, don’t you?”

She smiled again and sashayed out, leaving him alone with the Spymaster.

Leliana had regained her cool demeanor, standing at ease with her hands clasped behind her back. “Something I can help with?”

Karl wanted to melt into the floor. Rest his aching forehead on the cold stone until all his whirring thoughts stopped and he could sleep for a week. Instead, he said, “Tell me about Kinloch Hold.” Cullen had used the formal name for Ferelden’s Circle Tower, so Karl would use it, too.

He needed to know just how much their unexpected royal guest could affect the commander of the Inquisition’s army. Everyone was already stretched nearly to the breaking point with stress.

“He was tortured,” Leliana said.

“He mentioned that. A lot of people were tortured and killed at Ferelden’s Circle Tower after Uldred’s return from Ostagar. Not just Templars. Not just adults. And mages lived there in constant terror under Templar rule for years before that.

“What I need to know is how this relates to our unexpected guests: The King, and an assassin.”

A quiet moment passed before he prompted gently, “You were there, Leliana. With your friends.”

Only the slightest of blinks let him know he’d moved her.

“We needed help. For the Arl of Redcliffe.”

“Eamon, before he passed the title to his brother, Teagan?”

“Yes. We—the Grey Wardens, that is—had treaties compelling mages to help fight the Blight.”

“But when you arrived, Uldred had turned demon and the place was locked.”

“Yes. It was a bloodbath. Mages and Templars alike.” She hugged her arms around herself. “Some of the apprentice’s bodies were so small. Children barely old enough to read. They had already sent word to Val Royeaux, requesting authorization for the Right of Annulment.”

Karl hissed in angry air. Authorization to kill every mage of every age and ability, regardless of their role or guilt. Genocide the entire place, clean it up, and ship in new mages from other Circles to keep the system running. He supposed he should be grateful that the Knight-Commander had actually requested authorization _before_ beginning a purge.

“The Hero convinced the Knight-Commander to let us go in. I went ahead with the Wardens and a senior healer, Wynne. The others stayed below as a last line of defense.”

“Even Ria?” Karl forced a smile.

Leliana brightened for a moment. “You know of Ria the Brave?”

“Yes, the valiant mabari is almost as famous as the Hero herself.”

“Exactly,” Leliana chuckled. “Kate told her, ‘Watch over Morrigan, now, luv. I don’t trust these shifty Templars.’ Morrigan, she glared, but I saw her pet Ria, just the same.”

Her mirth faded as she stared blankly into the distance. “And then we were locked in the upper levels with demons and Templars and blood mages. With innocents who had never cast a spell against anyone. But mostly bodies. Mangled beyond recognition.

“After the first rage demon, Kate was burned, but she persevered. She carved the way ahead, blades flying. Alistair bashed shades out of her way. I watched Wynne’s back; without her mana, we would have perished. We all succumbed to a sloth demon, but the Hero pulled us out again.

“When we arrived at the top of the tower, Uldred could not be reasoned with. He was turning other mages into shades, but the Grand Enchanter would not acquiesce. Kate could not be bought, and the pride demon within the blood mage sprung forth.”

Leliana didn’t have to describe that battle.

Karl swallowed hard. Pride was a big, fucking, scaly demon, with too many horns, too many eyes, and whips of lightning.

“We saved the Grand Enchanter and won the support of the surviving mages,” she said, dry as a field report.

“And Rutherford?”

“In the room before Uldred, he was in a magic cell. On his knees, praying to the Maker. He seemed—” She faltered.

“He seemed to believe Kate was a desire demon, sent to tempt him with pleasures of the flesh. He ranted about how mages are corrupted by magic and how he would never bed one.” Her voice had gone from dry to dead.

Karl felt nauseous. “That had to be a heinous experience for you both, listening to a man go on like that.”

She shuddered. “It made me wonder how many Templars said the same thing, yet found their way into beds uninvited. There would not have been a safe way for a woman—for any mage—to say no.

“Kate laughed. ‘I’m not carrying a staff, asshole,’” Leliana tipped her voice down, trying to imitate Lady Cousland’s Fereldan accent. “‘I’m here to save your asses, so you’d better tell me what’s going on in that Harrowing chamber.’

“Cullen demanded that we kill everyone in the tower. The risk was too great, he said. Every Kinloch mage had been exposed to demons, now lying in wait within them. No mage could be trusted. He continued the argument downstairs, but Greagoir overruled him and declared the Circle safe again.”

Karl rubbed his face with his hands. It had been worse than he’d thought. “And then Rutherford was transferred to Kirkwall.” Not the place to go to learn tolerance.

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Leliana.”

“Karl—”

“That will be all.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

He gave her a moment to clear Josephine’s office. Then strode for the armory. Lyrium wasn’t the only demon haunting the Commander, and the Inquisitor needed to know how strong a hold that specter had on him.

As Karl entered the main hall, he saw Alistair and Zevran exit the undercroft in the company of Dagna. All three were laughing brightly together. Karl picked up the pace.

He trotted down the steps and made his way across the training yard. Leo was throwing knives at Cassandra’s training dummies.

“Whoa, there, Karl,” his brother grabbed his knives and fell into step beside him. “What’s going on?”

Having Leo along would be good. Leo would keep him from doing something irreparable. Karl was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore Cullen’s call to purge the tower, no matter how many years ago that was. His anger rushed ahead of him toward the door.

“I need you with me,” he growled out. “I’m going to talk with Cullen.”

“Oh.” Leo opened the armory door for him and followed him through.

Cassandra and Cullen were the only people there. Good. If he was going to start a fight, the fewer witnesses the better.

Karl wanted to ask Cullen if he still hated mages. He didn’t trust them. His harassment of Connor made that clear. But did he hate them?

Was Dorian in danger here?

Karl’s blood ran cold while his anger ran hot. Yet he surprised himself as much as anyone else with the words came flying out of his mouth.

“Cullen, were you in love with the King’s girlfriend?”

-

Leo was not prepared for Karl’s question. He shot Cassandra a glance. She frowned, just as confused as he was.

“I . . . ” Cullen’s cheeks turned pink and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Everyone loved the Hero of Ferelden.”

Well, fuck. Leo had no context for this line of questioning, but if Karl was this worked up about it, it probably had something to do with mages and Templars. He’d just listen and intervene if the two men came to blows.

“That’s not an answer,” Karl said.

“Whatever . . . admiration I once held for Lady Cousland. That is in the past.”

“But it wasn’t really about her, was it?” Karl asked sharply. “She just had the unfortunate luck of looking like someone else.”

All the blood drained from Cullen’s face. “How did you know that?”

“I _don’t_ know that. I’m guessing, and I need to hear the truth from you. She haunts you as much as lyrium and I need to know you can handle that. I need to know how badly Alistair’s appearance has shaken you.”

Maker, the King of Ferelden was here?

Cullen’s shoulders slumped. “Her name was Solona.”

Cassandra blanched. “Solona Amell? The Champion’s cousin?”

“Yes. She was . . . enamored with me.”

“Was she?” Karl asked sharply and Leo was glad. He wanted to know, too. Had Cullen dallied with the mages under his protection? And had those mages had a choice?

Cullen blinked, thinking. “Perhaps not. She was always polite when we spoke. I see now that it might not have meant anything, considering our positions.”

Cassandra gave a disgusted grunt.

“I never breached protocol with her,” he told Cassandra. “With anyone at any of my assignments.”

“‘Breached protocol.’ That’s an odd way to phrase it,” Karl said. “But I believe you. Was it because she was a mage?”

Cullen looked down at his gloved hands, searching the emptiness there for an answer. “I’d like to say no. But I don’t think I can.”

He didn’t groan, or glare, but Leo really wished Cassandra had picked someone—anyone—other than the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall to command the Inquisition’s army. And it wasn’t just because his mage-loving brother was Inquisitor.

“What about now?” Karl demanded.

Cullen straightened, as if suddenly remembering he was reporting to a superior officer. “All my relationships here are professional, Inquisitor.”

“I’m not talking about your sex life anymore, Cullen. The Seeker might care about your dalliances as a Templar, but I don’t care how many people you sleep with now. What I want to know is are you still a mage hunter?”

“We are all part of the Inquisition now. I will not harass our allies.”

“So you’re willing to work with Connor and his people? Solas?” Karl’s eyes burned as he asked, “Dorian?”

“I mean Dorian no ill will,” Cullen replied stiffly. “He has proven himself.”

“What about those who haven’t proven themselves, Cullen?” Karl sounded nearly frantic now. “Will you back them into corners? Leash them with ‘oversight’ until they sing the Chantry’s praises and follow every order you give them? Where to live, what to eat, _how_ to live?”

Cassandra scrunched up her face with discomfort, clearly understanding that Karl’s questions were meant for her, too.

“I have left that life behind,” Cullen said, more stoic than usual.

“Well,” Karl’s voice cracked, “Good then.” He nodded jerkily and left the armory. Leo gave Cassandra and Cullen a hurried farewell and went after him.

“Karl,” Leo stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“What have I done?” Karl asked, his hands shaking.

“You did fine. Cullen’s fine. We’re fine. But you need to rest. Dorian’s waiting for you. Sleep before any more meetings.”

Karl nodded and returned to the keep.

Leo gave up on training. His back was achy again anyway, and Ava had warned him not to overdo it. He went in search of Lace. Perhaps she knew what had brought the King to Skyhold.

-

The next morning, Karl didn’t really need Dorian’s help checking on Ace and the other horses, but Dorian enjoyed their quiet time together in the stables. He’d also reached the point where he was almost not bothered by the stares they got when he and Karl walked side-by-side past the merchants’ stalls, back toward the keep.

“How long since I kissed you?” Karl asked suddenly and Dorian’s heart sped up.

“An hour, at least.”

“Let me fix that,” Karl dragged him into the corner where the stairs met the keep wall, hidden from view of the front gate. The stone was cool against Dorian’s bare shoulder, Karl’s mouth hot against his lips; but for all his hurry, the kiss was tender and coaxing.

“About damn time you smooched someone,” a rich female voice spoke from the shadows under the stairs and a cloaked figure stepped forward. The muted green hood that hid her face could have belonged to any farmer, but the silver brooch on her shoulder was an elegant rendering of a Trevelyan steed.

Dorian’s shoulders tensed. Perhaps she was one of Karl’s more friendly relatives, but just because she wasn’t as hostile as his mother, didn’t mean she’d be thrilled he’d attached himself to a Tevinter mage.

“Margie!” Karl leapt from Dorian’s side to embrace her, a bright smile on his face. “I thought you were in Amaranthine.”

“I was. Then made the mistake of visiting home and your mother tried to have me arrested. That’s why I’m late.”

Karl’s laugh came out a relieved breath. He stepped back and squeezed her shoulder. “I didn’t send for you, but I’m glad you’re here.

“Dorian,” Karl reached back for his hand and pulled him forward, “I want you to meet my cousin, Lady Margaret Trevelyan, from my great-great grandmother’s side. Lady Margaret, this is Dorian of House Pavus.”

“Dorian.” She lowered her hood and offered him a handshake, but he hesitated, shocked by who he saw: It was if the Hero of Ferelden had stepped from the painting in Josephine’s office. Blonde hair such a dark honey color it nearly looked brown, done up in the same tight bun, fair skin slightly tanned from traveling, deep green eyes that looked right through his soul.

“My lady.” He quickly recovered and bowed, kissing her hand and she chuckled.

“Am I doomed to wear my title for my entire visit here, then?” she asked.

Karl gave her a sheepish smile. “Actually, it might help to throw some more noble weight around, if you don’t mind.”

“Hmm.” Her pensive hum wasn’t committal, but her small smile was fond and Dorian thought Karl might be able to talk her into anything.

“This place have anything other than dried rations?” she asked. “I traveled light.”

“This way,” Karl said, leading the way up the keep’s main steps. “We have some pastries in our room that can tide us over until dinner.”

When they entered the main hall, Varric wasn’t at his fireplace, but Leo sat at his table, along with Leliana, Zevran, and King Alistair.

“Kate,” Leliana gasped out, jumping up and grabbing Zevran’s wrist. The elf’s eyes were also wide with shock.

“Margie,” the King said stiffly, rising slowly from his seat. His surprise was of a different sort. He _knew_ this woman, and the experience had apparently not ended well.

“What?” Leliana frowned, then pulled herself together. She glanced at the brooch on the visitor’s cloak. “Welcome to Skyhold, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Lady Trevelyan nodded and turned toward the King. “Shouldn’t you be in Denerim, Alistair? Is that not where your duty lies?”

The King pursed his lips and did not answer.

Margaret Trevelyan turned on her heel and walked out.

Karl stared at the King for a moment, then turned and followed his cousin. “I’ll find you later,” he promised, letting his warm fingers brush along Dorians forearm on his way past.

“Well,” Leo said with false brightness, “This is a surprise. How about you tell me exactly what has my cousin so upset.” His steely gaze bore directly into the King.

Dorian did what any sane person would: Kept his mouth shut and beat a hasty retreat through the rotunda to hide himself in the upper library.

-

After exhausting his search through the limited selection of Tevene tomes upstairs, with nary a clue as to Corypheus’ real name, Dorian was headed for the lower library when he overheard Leliana talking with Margaret Trevelyan. They were playing a private card game in the wine cellar, with the door open.

Perhaps it was rude, but he paused to listen, curious.

“Shall we up the stakes this round, say a Sovereign to play, five silvers to raise?” Lady Trevelyan said over the sound of shuffling cards.

“As you wish,” Leliana answered, and the thwwit, thwwit, thwwit of cards hitting a tabletop echoed out through the open door.

“So, you knew Alistair,” Leliana said, tone deceptively casual.

No voices needed to be raised. No daggers drawn. This was the real game they played: power, influence, information. They walked the shadows of the court and journeyed the roughest parts of Thedas.

Dorian would not wager a single copper on who might come out on top.

“That’s right. Check.”

“Funny, he has never mentioned you.”

“Why?” Trevelyan answered just as casually. “Because you’re his best friend?”

“One of them.”

“Is the King in the habit of keeping secrets from the Inquisition’s Spymaster?”

“He is my friend,” Leliana said.

“That is not an answer,” Trevelyan countered. “I call.” Coins slid across the table.

Leliana sighed, and her next comment was less guarded. “Please, I want to know. If I can help you, I will. He is . . . it is clear he cares for you.”

“Really?” Trevelyan was not swayed by Leliana’s gentler tone. “You could tell that from the two minutes we were in the same room? Your play.”

“You know what I mean,” Leliana retorted and shifted more coins.

“You know that locket he wears?”

“Yes?” Leliana sounded confused.

“He doesn’t wear it because it was Fiona’s. He wears it because Cousland gave it to him.”

Lovely sentiment, the giving of jewelry, but why would an illegitimate prince be given the former Grand Enchanter’s—oh. _Oh._

This was a piece of intelligence Dorian wished he had not been privy to. Certainly, this wasn’t the Imperium, where elven slaves were commonplace, but Fereldans would still take up arms if they thought their King might be elf-blooded. And it would invite other nations to invade as well.

“How do you know of Fiona? Rather, how would you know either of those things?”

“He told me himself. Didn’t you know? Your golden boy has a soft spot for pillow talk.”

Tense silence reigned in the room for a moment before Trevelyan added, “I’m also taller, not as curvy, and I don’t blush as easily as Kate did.”

“ _Imbécile_ ,” Leliana muttered and Trevelyan laughed.

“I called him a bastard, but at least I know he remembers me for me, and not as some dead woman I never met. Don’t worry about the mom thing; I don’t think he makes a habit of revealing his deepest, darkest secrets to everyone he sleeps with.”

“I doubt he’s taken anyone else to bed,” Leliana said.

“Oh? Not even Zevran? What a waste. I’ll raise you.” There was the clink of another coin. “That explains why he’s clingy—well, clingy is too strong a word. He gave me puppy eyes in the hall this afternoon.”

“Why do you not return his affections?”

There was another pause, filled only with the shifting of coins across the table.

Trevelyan sighed. “Fine, you got me, Nightingale. One tumble with the King of Ferelden wasn’t enough for me, but it was _he_ who left the bed and didn’t see me off the next morning, not I who broke it off.”

“I do not understand.”

“I—stupid, stupid—I asked him if he could make me a Grey Warden.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_. He looked at me like I was Dumat brought back to life and fled for the hills. It was just a stupid, casual comment on my part. I didn’t really think things through. He’s told you about the Joining and the Calling, right? The taint. How a Warden’s soul is the only way to kill an archdemon?”

“Yes,” Leliana said. “Everything.”

“So, my casual comment turned into a heated argument. I told him I could handle it, that he needn’t be the only Warden in Ferelden. Andraste’s pyre, Leliana, I didn’t stop to think about how the last archdemon was slain. It only took me about two seconds of thinking after he stormed out.

“The next morning, I was going to apologize, get down on my knees and promise I wouldn’t join, but he didn’t show up to see me off. I mean, that’s his right, but I’m not going to go crawling after some man who walked out on me.”

After a moment’s silence, there was a pitiful sniffle. “Besides, what kind of idiot wants to be Queen of Ferelden?”

“Oh, ma chère, come here.” There was a scraping of chairs.

Trevelyan’s watery voice floated out into the hall, “Hey, Dorian, you got any coin?”

 _Fasta vass_. He’d been caught. Dorian cleared his throat and stepped to the door where he could be seen. Leliana and Trevelyan were hugging across the table.

He tried to make light of it. “I suppose I could stand to lose a few gold pieces. Gambling is rather relaxing.”

Trevelyan grinned at him through her drying tears and pushed Leliana back toward her seat. “Want to know how I knew it was you in the hall?”

“Pray tell, my dear.”

“You smell like Karl’s shaving soap,” Trevelyan said, and Leliana hid a giggle— _a giggle!_ —behind her hand. “And _he_ doesn’t skulk around in hallways, just barges right in and asks me what I’m up to.”

“Does he do that often?” Dorian asked.

“At least daily when we’re in the same place,” Karl’s cousin answered. “Pull up a wine barrel, Pavus. We rogues are about to rob you of every coin in your purse.”

So, instead of getting himself assassinated for overhearing several things he was better off not knowing, Dorian found himself enjoying a spirited game of cards with two lovely ladies who could make empires tumble.

**Author's Note:**

> Want a sneak peek at an upcoming chapter? Consider beta reading a chapter, and I’d be happy to reciprocate. No commitment. No editing experience required. Betas tell a writer what worked and didn’t work for them in the story, what makes them want to keep reading. If you’d like to chat about it, [contact me on tumblr](https://dafan7711.tumblr.com/ask) (Private Messaging also open) or via the e-mail listed on my [AO3 profile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/profile).
> 
> Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for more of the Trevelyan brothers' adventure.
> 
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